


A Study in Pink - revisited

by Soledad



Series: The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord [3]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: A Study in Pink - pilot version, Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord, Gen, Torchwood References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 37,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4586949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson finally enters the picture. This is an AU version of the canon episode, closer to the original pilot than the final version, and with a mighty twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homeward Bound

**Author's Note:**

> The following adventure is my version of “A Study in Pink”. It’s closer to the unaired pilot than to the actual episode, but with and entirely different solution, as you’ll see.

**HOMEWARD BOUND**

The therapist’s office was a subdued little room, kept in broken whites, beiges and browns, with two large, vaulted windows, bolted with a decorative white grille. They had lace curtains and identical bouquets in identical glass vases standing in the exact middle of each windowsill. Strange what unimportant details one could observe when one was uncomfortable.

There was a low coffee table right in front of the windows, but they weren’t sitting at it. They were sitting in the middle of the room, in identical armchairs, facing each other.

The therapist herself – _Ella_ , her name was Ella Thompson, he reminded himself – was a somewhat harried-looking black woman, whose hair had been straightened and back-combed, so that it hung slightly over her brow in the fashion of an anime character. She wore lots of cheap jewellery: stub-shaped earrings, multiple rows of glass bead strings around her neck, bracelets and an unusual, quadratic silver ring with a read stone.

A large cashmere shawl in muted blues, reds and browns was wrapped around her shoulders; she obviously wore it instead of a jacket, with a calf-length dark shirt and moderately high heels. She sat relaxed, crossing a leg over the other knee, as opposed to his ramrod straight military stance.

Which didn’t hinder him in fidgeting impatiently, though.

God, this was such a waste of time! He should be out, hunting for a job – in the unlikely case there were any openings for an invalided-out army doctor – or trying to find a flat that he could afford on his army pension (which was hardly likely in London, but still), not sitting here, listening to the condescending nonsense of his therapist, just cause she was the only one with at least a pretence of professional interest for his well-being.

Oh, Harry _had_ tried. She’d come to the airport to welcome him back, had given him her old phone – a gift from Clara, of a time when they had still been together – even offering to move in with her until he found something of his own.

He had politely rejected the offer, of course. The last thing he wanted was to watch her drinking herself into an early grave. Or listening to her tirades against Mary.

She’d never liked Mary and couldn’t understand why he would marry someone much younger than himself and coming from a vastly different culture. He never cared. He’d loved Mary – in fact he still did – and they had managed well enough… until the nay-sayers from both sides had destroyed their happiness.

While he’d been lying in that dirty field hospital, delirious from the pain and the morphine, his memories of Mary had been so _vivid_. He could almost feel and _taste_ her.

For the first time in his life, he understood how frighteningly easy it would be to become addicted to the stuff. If it could bring Mary back, could make him relive the happiness they had once known…

He’d snapped out of it once he’d recovered enough to bear the pain without the morphine, of course. Harry’s downward spiral had warned him off from becoming an addict himself. But there were nights when he lay awake, trying to escape the inevitable nightmares by denying himself the luxury of sleep, and in his half-dazed state he imagined that he could feel Mary’s oh-so-soft touch and smell the faint scent of spices always clinging to her silky hair.

Someone cleared her throat and he realized that his therapist – _Ella, think of her as Ella!_ – must have asked something from him. Probably more than just once, too.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “You were saying?”

“I asked how your blog’s going,” she repeated patiently.

“Oh, that!”

He’d actually taken the dratted laptop out of the upper chest drawer and powered it up, but the only thing still appearing on the blank page was the title of the site: **The Personal Blog of Dr. John Watson.**

A dull title if there ever was one, dull and completely void of imagination. Perhaps he should change it.

“Good,” he lied impassively. “It’s going good. Very good.”

“Written much?” Ella was clearly not believing him.

“Not a word,” he admitted without remorse.

He was a lousy liar; and besides, he found the mere idea ridiculous. He wasn’t some giggly teenaged girl who needed to discuss every tiny aspect of her meaningless life online with her similarly-minded friends.

Ella sighed and he prepared himself for another lecturing about the necessary of dealing with his issues. As if writing a ruddy blog could bring Mary back. Or stop Harry’s drinking. Or help him getting a job or finding a flat that he could actually _afford_.

As if he could bear the thought of complete strangers reading about the things that were tearing him apart.

“John, it’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life,” Ella began, and he had to fight the urge to roll his eyes in exasperation. Hard.

What was it with people and their need to state the obvious?

As if he didn’t know how hard it would be to get used to England again, after five years of shooting and getting shot at, killing people and saving people, amputating limbs in a tent, delivering babies on the roadside… or watching helplessly the wounded bleed to death under his hands because there was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ that he could have done to save them.

Yeah, sure, he needed the reminder like he needed a broken leg, on top of all his other problems.

“… and it will help so much to write down everything that’s happening to you,” Ella continued in that condescending manner all therapists seemed to have perfected to a T.

He thought of the bleak little bed-sit provided by the military for the time of his recovery; that he’d have to leave as soon as he got a clean bill of health, which was only a matter of a week or so, since he was healed, as much as he’d ever be. He thought of the bleak future before him; of a future in which he no longer had any roots, any true purpose – just a mundane _existence_ without hope.

“ _Nothing_ happens to me,” he said with such a flat finality that it finally shut her up.

The really sad part was that it was depressingly true.

Without waiting for her reaction, he rose from the armchair, grabbed his cane and hobbled out of the practice, determined _not_ to come back ever again. He didn’t need a therapist to treat him like a child. Harry managed the job on her own just fine.

~TBC~


	2. A Walk in the Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hesitated a little concerning the chance meeting of John and Mike Stamford; whether it should take place on the Piccadilly, like in the unaired pilot, or in the park, like in the actual episode. As you can see, I chose the park in the end – but let them have lunch at the _Criterion_.

A WALK IN THE PARK

Mike Stamford was enjoying his well-earned lunch break, sitting on a bench in Russell Square Gardens, near the _Criterion Coffee Shop_. He’d just finished a series of examinations in the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital for his next publication and wanted to relax for a moment, before he’d go to the _Criterion_ for lunch.

There he sat, in the rare and welcome autumn sunshine, eyeing the headlines of his newspaper when he spotted the man. Actually, it was the _limp_ that he spotted first. Being a doctor, his eyes automatically picked out all possible illnesses and injuries in his surroundings.

As soon as he focused on the man, the second thing he noticed was the nagging familiarity. Not the limp or the military haircut, of course, he’d never known anyone who belonged to the military. But there was something in that short, stout body, that dishwater-blond hair, now generously streaked with grey, those small, observant eyes, now surrounded by dark circles, and that slightly upturned nose in that round face that had an eerie resemblance to a mercat…

The thought wasn’t quite finished yet when Mike was already rising from his bench.

“John?” he cried.

The man hobbled past the bench, without noticing him.

“John Watson?” Mike called after him.

Now the man stopped, turned around and looked at him with a frown, clearly not recognising him.

“Stamford,” Mike indicated at himself with a hand laid upon his own breast. “Mike Stamford. We were at _Bart’s_ together.”

The man with the haunted eyes that seemed so… alien in that otherwise familiar face shook Mike’s extended hand somewhat awkwardly, clearly embarrassed that he still couldn’t recognise him.

“Yes, sorry,” he mumbled uncomfortably. “Yes, Mike, hello.”

Fortunately for him, Mike was used to such reactions from the people he hadn’t met for a while and took no offence.

“Yeah, I know,” he laughed good-naturedly. “I got fat.”

“No, no,” the strangely different John protested, but Mike waved off his awkward protests.

“Don’t worry about it. You know how it is: too many long hours in the lab, little to no exercise, too much comfort food…” he trailed off, suddenly realising that he was talking to the wrong person about such things.

John, short and wiry and obviously no longer used to the comforts of a settled life in London, smiled wryly. “No, not really; I can’t say that I do.”

“Oh, right,” it was Mike’s turn to be embarrassed. “I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at,” his glance wandered to the cane upon which John was leaning rather heavily. ”What happened?”

John paused, as if trying to find the fitting answer – and giving up.

“I got shot,” he finally said in a dry manner, shrugging slightly.

“Oh, my…” now Mike was truly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, John, I’m so sorry… I didn’t know… Listen, why don’t we go to the _Criterion_ and have lunch together? I still have got about an hour of my lunch break; we could catch up on each other and stuff.”

“Mike, I don’t know…” John seemed _extremely_ uncomfortable, and Mike understood that he probably wouldn’t be able to afford lunch at a place like the _Criterion_ anymore.

“Don’t worry about the bill,” he added hurriedly. “My treat.”

John became stark white by the mere idea of letting him cover the bill. “Mike, I can’t possibly accept…”

“Oh, don’t be like that!” Mike interrupted. “I’ve had a bit of good luck lately, thanks to an old friend, so I can afford to buy lunch for another old friend. We haven’t seen each other for how long? Five years? Six?”

“Almost eight by now,” John corrected.

“Well, there you have it,” Mike said, desperate to do something for the so obviously broken man whom he’d once called a friend. “You can let me buy lunch once in eight years. C’mon, John, don’t be so bloody stubborn, you can return the favour once you’ve settled down again.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in the _Criterion_ , having their first glass of wine. Despite his previous protests, John didn’t actually stand out of the clientele like a sore thumb. Sure, he wasn’t wearing a suit like most people there – like Mike himself, in fact – but he was dressed stylishly enough in those beige pants and that light brown leather jacket. In fact, he barely appeared self-conscious as he sat opposite Mike, sipping his red wine.

“Are you still at _Bart's_ then?” he asked, after the waiter had offered him the menu card and he’d ordered spaghetti carbonara.

“Teaching now, yeah,” Mike accepted a roll from the waiter and opened his own menu card. “Bright young things like we used to be. God I hate them,” he added reflexively, without any real heat, just to keep up appearances – not that he’d need it with John, of all people.

The waiter got their orders and left. Mike bit into the roll to placate his rumbling stomach until their lunches would arrive. God, he really ought to move more and eat less carbs. But that was the problem with New Year’s resolutions. They never lasted beyond January.

“What about you?” he then asked. “Just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?”

John shook his head. “I can't afford London on an army pension,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.

Mike stared at him in open-mouthed shock. “But… but you couldn't bear to be anywhere else,” he protested. “That's not the John Watson I know.”

“Yeah I'm not _that_ John Watson anymore,” John replied with an indifferent shrug.

“How’s Mary coping?“ Mike asked, remembering his friend’s young, beautiful and exotic wife. “Is she willing to move somewhere else with you?”

John barked a short laugh. “Unlikely. She divorced me almost five years ago.”

“ _What_?” Mike couldn’t believe his own ears. “Why?”

John shrugged indifferently again. “I’m not really sure. I think it had something to do with her family. I was already in Afghanistan when the divorce got through and only learned that she’d sold our house when I got back. We haven’t had any contact since I left.”

“That’s sad, man,” Mike said after a lengthy pause. “So you don’t even have a place to live, eh?”

“Not at the moment,” John admitted, “and I’ll have to leave my military bed-sit soon.”

“Couldn’t Harry help?” Mike asked tentatively.

“Yeah, like that's gonna happen,” John returned with a humourless grin. “You know Harry…”

“Yeah, I do,” Mike briefly remembered the pretty blonde he used to have a crush on during their shared years at _Bart’s_ – and what she’d become since then – and understood that John wouldn’t go to her for help, no matter what. “You could get a flatshare or something, though.”

John rolled his eyes in tolerant amusement. “C'mon. Who'd want me for a flatmate?”

Mike had an eerie moment of _déja vu_ … so strongly that he fell silent abruptly. Abruptly enough for John to notice it and look at him questioningly. “ _What_?”

“Well,” Mike said slowly, “you're the second person to say that to me lately.”

At that, John raised an interested eyebrow. “Who’s the first?”

~TBC~


	3. First Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s e-mails and the addresses where they come can be seen on the computer screen when he answers his mail in the unaired pilot.

**FIRST SIGHT**

Sherlock Holmes was frustrated. He’d hoped that his work with the police would get easier with the passing of years; unfortunately, reality had proved him wrong.

Their limitations were more annoying than he’d expected at the beginning. The sharpness of his genius-level mind, his encyclopaedic knowledge and his complete emotional detachment had alienated the coppers in a very short time. For many of them, he’d soon become _the Freak_ – or the psychopath. They used him – reluctantly, cause even their simple minds realized that it was in their own interest – but they couldn’t really stand him.

Also, he’d flown out of seven flats in little more than two years. No landlord was willing to tolerate his experiments or his playing the violin at 3pm in the morning, for hours. And each time, his insufferable brother gloated more openly.

He really, really needed a new flat; _and_ he needed a flatmate. Not for financial reasons only; he was fairly sure that Mycroft would, however reluctantly, release some of his founds, if for no other reason then to prevent him from living on the street and turning to drugs again.

But he never worked well alone, despite his superior intellect. He _needed_ an assistant, a companion… a sounding board, somebody to test his ideas on. The skull really wasn’t a satisfying partner for that.

Meeting Mike Stamford again had seemed to be the answer first. But Mike had turned out too clumsy, too focused on his teaching, on his research; and he was most definitely not mobile enough for his purposes. Mike would never give up that ridiculous, overpriced practice of his. He would never move out of that ridiculous, overpriced house of his, just to become Sherlock’s assistant and flatmate.

People like Mike Stamford preferred a dull, predictable life. All the man was still lacking was a dull wife.

Sherlock grimaced in annoyance as he booted up one of the lab’s outdated computers to check his e-mail. Molly had promised him coffee; where the hell was she tarrying? Was it really so complicated to get a cup of coffee in a hospital? Without a chance to smoke, he needed heightened caffeine intake, was it so hard to understand?

He shook his head and blinked several times to focus because opening his inbox. There were three letters only, one of them from the address of that insufferable brother of his.

_An impossible situation_ , the subject line said. Sherlock pulled a face. He didn’t need to actually read the letter to know what it was about. Or that it wasn’t really from his brother; Mycroft preferred to call. His correspondence was handled by that overzealous PA of him. Not Anthea, of course, who couldn’t be separated from her BlackBerry; the redhead with the obnoxious manners.

Sherlock clicked Reply and sent a message to mycroft@deux.org, without opening and reading the original one: _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth_. He hit the Send button with a dark little smile. That would teach Mycroft’s minions not to bother him with their petty little problems.

Then he turned his attention to the next letter, which had come from Detective Inspector Gregson, Lestrade’s main rival, concerning some church bell theft. A fairly mundane crime, truly, but the interpersonal relationships in the background had been most interesting.

_If you can see the church from the bedroom window, Davies is your man_ , Sherlock typed and sent the reply to gregson@hnu.co.uk.

The third letter came from lestrade@strade.org.com, with the urgent plea to call the Detective Inspector as soon as possible. Sherlock deleted the message with a wry grin, without answering it. Eventually, he would help Lestrade, of course. But it would be a mistake to make the man believe that he’d be at his beck and call all the time.

Then he opened a new window and started a new mail, addressed to Mycroft, but typing JONES in the subject line. That way, his brother’s ninja butler would get the message directly. _Will look at flat tomorrow. SH_ , he wrote and hit the Send button.

Then he signed out and walked over to the microscope to check on the state of his latest experiment… only to grimace, remembering that he’d promised Detective Inspector Gregson the solution of another crime.

Oh, well, a text message would do… or rather it _would have_ , had he any sign on his phone. If he hadn’t forgotten to recharge it. He scowled in annoyance. Now he’d have to wait until Molly _finally_ arrived with the stupid coffee.

Where the hell _was_ she anyway?

His thoughts were interrupted by two different sets of footsteps approaching the lab. One of them clearly belonged to Mike Stamford; few people had such a heavy yet brisk way to walk, and certainly no-one else at _Bart’s_.

The other one, though… it was interesting. The rhythm was broken – someone with a fairly bad limp – and accentuated by the frequent knocking of a cane against the floor. Yet even with the limp, the second person had a fast, steady pace; somebody much shorter than Mike if they had to make such effort to keep up with him. Mike really wasn’t the fastest walker.

The door opened. Pretending to focus on his microscope, Sherlock risked a quick glance from the corner of his eye and saw Mike Stamford walk in, wearing his ever-present white lab coat. With him came a man about the same age but a good head shorter, wearing jeans, a blue shirt and a brown leather jacket.

The man’s stance and haircut practically screamed military. His brief exchange with Mike, as he looked around with interest, mentioning that the place had changed a lot since his time, revealed him as an Army doctor, presumably trained at _Bart’s_. His face was tanned, but there were not tan lines above his wrist as he reached out to hand his phone to Sherlock, so he didn’t get his tan on some exotic beach. Must have served somewhere in the Middle East, then. He used a cane while walking indeed, but the leg didn’t seem to bother him when he stood, so it had to be at least partially psychosomatic. However, the way he seemed to favour his left shoulder told about a real injury; one that still gave him trouble.

He was a short and rather unremarkable man with greying, sandy hair, in unattractive clothes – Sherlock knew he was being snobbish, but really, wearing a T-shirt beneath under that blue shirt spoke of a terrible fashion sense. And yet there was steely strength under that seemingly plain surface. Strength and a rare sense of honour. Probably unwavering loyalty, too – _if_ one managed to earn it.

It was a strange thought, having to earn somebody’s loyalty. As a rule, Sherlock expected people to do his bidding simply because he knew better what needed to be done. This time was different, though. This man, quite obviously dragged here by Mike as a possible answer to his flatmate problem, had something… some hidden depth that belied his plain appearance.

Mike, helpful as always, made the necessary introductions.

“This is an old mate of mine, John Watson.”

They shook hands. The Army doctor’s hand was pleasantly dry, even calloused in places, his grip short but firm. Sherlock returned to his microscope then, asking blithely over his shoulder:

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

~TBC~


	4. Sherlocked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did use some of the original dialogue from the unaired pilot. They’re all Moffat’s. Quoting them was inevitable in this case, I’m afraid.

**SHERLOCKED**

John was a bit surprised when Mike dragged him to _Bart’s_ unceremoniously, with the vague explanation that he needed to introduce him to somebody. This somebody turned out to be a fairly exotic-looking man in his mid-thirties: very tall, very thin… and very odd, with an unruly map of ginger curls covering his sleek head and with the most extraordinary eyes John had ever seen aside from the CGI-effects of some science fiction film. Or rather fantasy epos, featuring mythical creatures.

They were large, slightly slanted and of a strange silver-green hue under wide, arched eyebrows, several shades darker than his hair. Had the man dark hair, Peter Jackson would have been deliriously happy to cast him as a Rivendell Elf. Thinking of it, he’d have made an excellent Vulcan, too, John decided, involuntarily checking out the man’s ears.

Nope, they were _not_ pointed.

When they entered the lab, the man was standing at the far end, using a pipette to squeeze a few drops of liquid onto a Petri dish. Hearing their approach, he glanced across at them briefly before looking at his work again. John shrugged and limped into the room, looking around at all the equipment.

“Well, it’s a bit different from my day,” he judged.

Mike chuckled. “You’ve no idea!”

Sitting down back to his work, the man with the alien eyes asked without looking at them. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asked good-naturedly, but he was already reaching into his coat pocket.

That earned him a tight smile from the man. “I’d rather text.”

Mike finally found something in his pocket, but it was just a notebook, not his phone. “Sorry. It’s in my other coat.”

John fished in his back pocket and took out the fancy phone, Harry’s gift. “Oh, here. Use mine.”

“Oh. Thank you,” the man seemed vaguely surprised as he glanced briefly at Mike, then stood up to walk over to them. John felt those luminous eyes practically take him apart as the phone changed hands and Mike introduced them. Then he returned to his microscope, flipped open the keypad and typed a short message.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked over his shoulder as an afterthought.

If John had been surprised before, he was positively shocked now. He frowned and glanced at Mike who was smiling knowingly. “Sorry?”

“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man elaborated, his eyes glued to the microscope.

“Afghanistan,” John replied automatically, before the strangeness of the whole situation could have registered properly. Mike just smiled smugly. “Sorry, how did you know ...?”

At this very moment the door opened and in came a mousey young woman in a white lab coat, carrying a white ceramic mug.

“Ah, coffee!” the man at the microscope exclaimed. “Thank you, Molly!”

Miss Wallflower, whose name was apparently Molly, put down the cup next to the microscope awkwardly. The man, handing John back his phone, gave her a searching look. “What happened to the lipstick?”

“I… it wasn’t working for me,” the girl named Molly replied with an awkward smile.

“Really?” the man asked in genuine surprise. “I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.”

He turned and walked back to his work, taking a sip from the mug and grimacing at the taste. The poor girl looked heartbroken and utterly humiliated at the same time.

“Okay,” she muttered, heading back towards the door.

John fought the urge to punch the self-absorbed tosser in the teeth valiantly… and won. But it was a close thing. He was just about to give Mike’s friend a piece of his mind when the man asked, without looking up to him.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

The question, out of the blue and with no obvious connection to whatever had happened so far, caught John off-guard. He glanced at Mike who was still smiling smugly, before realising that the rude idiot was actually talking to him.

“I’m sorry, what?” he replied with a question of his own, totally flabbergasted.

The guy was typing on his laptop keyboard and continued talking. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end,” he finally looked up at John. “Would that bother you?”

John was still unable to say a thing, his brain valiantly trying to make the necessary connections… and failing. The guy threw a hideously false smile at him.

“Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,” he said as an explanation.

John kept looking at him blankly for a moment before staring across to Mike. “Oh, you... you told him about me?”

Mike grinned like a loon. “Not a word.”

John shook his head and turned back to the madman at the laptop. “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

The madman suddenly stood, picking up his greatcoat and putting it on with an overly theatrical move. “I did. Told Mike some time ago that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

John’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How did you know about Afghanistan?”

The madman ignored the question, wrapped his scarf around his neck, then picked up his mobile and checked it, realising with dismay that it still didn’t have signal.

“Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London,” he said distractedly. “Together we ought to be able to afford it.” He walked by John, without slowing down. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock,” again, that tight, creepy smile. “Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

Putting his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, he headed for the door. John stared at him in anger and disbelief. If the idiot thought he could boss around Captain John Watson from the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers then he was suffering from delusions of godhood.

“Is that it?” he demanded.

The madman turned back from the door and raised an eyebrow. “Is that what?”

John spelled it out for him like he would for a particularly dense child. “We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?”

Again, that arched eyebrow. “Problem?”

John shook his head in disbelief, not really sure whether he should scream or laugh. He looked across to Mike for help, but his friend just continued to smile as he looked at the madman. John decided _not_ to hit either of them. Not _yet_ anyway.

“We don’t know a thing about each other,” he began with forced patience. “I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”

Which should have been enough explanation for any sane man. Unfortunately, his potential flatmate seemed to be outside of that category. He stared at John for a moment with a strangely hypnotic look in those alien eyes, before he began rattling down things he shouldn’t know, by right.

“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan,” he began, all but counting down things on his fingers. “I know you’ve got a brother with a bit of money who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid. “

John felt his cheeks heating up with embarrassment as he looked down at his leg and cane and shuffled his feet awkwardly. Damn the man, did he really have to bring up his bloody limp?

“That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” the madman finished smugly. He turned and walked to the door again, opening it and going through, but then leaned back into the room for a parting shot. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street.” He click-winked at John before looks over to Mike. “Afternoon.”

Mike raised a finger in farewell as the madman disappeared from the room. The door slammed shut behind him. John turned and looked at Mike in disbelief. Mike smiled and nodded to him.

“Yeah. He’s always like that.”

For a moment John seriously considered hitting his old friend, after all.

~TBC~


	5. Flatmate Check

**FLATMATE CHECK**

“So, my little brother’s gone and got himself a flatmate,” Mycroft mused. “That was fast. What can you tell me about this… person, Ianto?”

Ianto’s eyes became unfocused as always when he called up data from his photographic memory.

“Captain John Hamish Watson, age 39, a member of the RAMC, was deployed to Afghanistan until invalided from service after being wounded in action,” he began.

“Do you have any details about the nature of the injury?” Mycroft asked.

Ianto nodded. “Of course, sir. He was struck in the shoulder by a bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. He was saved by one of the Army nurses, a certain Bill Murray who’s also returned to the UK in the meantime, but they don’t actually have any contact in the moment. He also has a psychosomatic limp, caused by mental and emotional trauma rather than a physical wound, and an intermittent tremor in his left hand. His therapist, Miss Ella Thompson – arranged for him by the military – thinks it’s from PTSD. She also mentions that he’s got serious trust issues.”

“Interesting,” Mycroft drawled. “What about family?”

“Parents are both deceased,” Ianto supplied the details. “He’s got one older sister, Harriet Watson. She used to live in a civil partnership with another woman, Clara McGrath, but they split up three months ago and are getting a divorce.”

“Reason?” Mycroft asked.

Ianto did that weird unfocused-eyed routine again. “Harriet Watson is a drinker. Her partner objected to her drinking, and she simply walked out on her, being more interested in the bottle than in her partner.”

“Is that why Dr. Watson won’t accept help from her?” Mycroft asked. Ianto shrugged.

“Probably. Their mother had drunk herself to death. Perhaps he didn’t want to watch his sister doing the same. But it might also be the fact that Harriet’s on the brink of losing her current job and he didn’t want to lie on her pocket.”

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds plausible. Any other family? A wife? Children?”

“Ex-wife,” Ianto corrected. “Name’s Mary Morstan… or, if you want her authentic, Indian name, Mira Marsti. They married very young, much to the dismay of both families, and _her_ family finally succeeded to break up the marriage shortly before Dr. Watson would be deployed to Afghanistan.”

“I assume the break-up was the reason why Dr. Watson hired up in the first place,” Mycroft said.

Ianto shrugged. “Perhaps, sir. On the other hand, it wasn’t really an out of character decision for Dr. Watson. He’d worked at A&E before hiring up, after all; and right after graduation, he spent two years in India, working for _Médiciens Sans Frontiers_. He seems to be a man with a strong social engagement.”

“Who’s going to look at a flat that he’d be sharing with a sociopath,” Mycroft commented sourly. “That will be an interesting arrangement… not to mention a volatile one.”

“May I respectfully point out, sir, that it was _you_ who insisted on portraying him as a sociopath?” Ianto asked politely; then, with a barely perceptive change in his demeanour, he added. “Of course, this is a highly creative way to explain his rudeness and his blatant disregard for almost the entire human race.”

Mycroft raised an amused eyebrow. “Why, Mr. Jones, I almost get the impression that you’re not particularly fond of my little brother!”

There was so much fake hurt in his voice that Ianto had to laugh, whether he wanted or not. Still, there was one detail that irked him a bit.

“You keep calling him your little brother,” he said. “It’s… rather strange, when one knows who – and _what_ – he really is.”

“Well, that’s exactly what he is _now_ : my little brother,” Mycroft reasoned. “You better get used to if, as he’ll remain that for quite a while.”

“And what will he be for you once he gets restored to his true self?” Ianto asked.

Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh. “A nuisance.”

Clearly, it was Ianto’s turn with the raised eyebrow now, and he didn’t get the opportunity slip through his metaphoric fingers. “So, where’s the difference, sir?”

“I find I can more easily tolerate him like this,” Mycroft admitted ruefully.

Ianto flashed him a brief, knowing smile.

“When he depends on you in many ways and can’t just leave on a whim if he gets bored?” he clarified.

Mycroft nodded. “I must confess a certain… _satisfaction_ about it. Even if it costs a lot of time and effort to watch him.”

“Must we, sir?” Ianto asked. “Watch him, I mean. He’s a grown man… alien... after all, and it isn’t his first time on Earth. In fact, it isn’t the first time he’s _stranded_ on Earth.”

“And that’s exactly what concerns me,” Mycroft said. “The chameleon arch works amazingly well, but it isn’t bullet-proof; nothing in the multiverse is. Memories of his earlier times on Earth might leak through… and we need to know about it in the nanosecond it happens.”

“And do _what_?” Ianto asked doubtfully. “Retcon him? Or let him revert to his true self?”

“Not right away, no,” Mycroft replied. “Not without watching his reactions to potential flashbacks closely.”

“In which a flatmate could be helpful, considering that they’d be living together,” Ianto was finally getting the idea.

Mycroft nodded. “Exactly. Security cameras can only show us the bare facts: events, reactions, that sort of thing. They are completely useless when it comes to thought processes, plans or motivations. Which is why an insider informant would be so valuable.”

Ianto nodded slowly. It made sense. He just wasn’t sure that John Watson would be willingly playing his assigned part of the game.

“You want Dr. Watson to spy on your... _brother_ ,” he said.

It wasn’t a question, but Mycroft nodded nonetheless.

“What makes you sure he’ll be ready to do so?”

That _was_ a question, albeit a fairly rhetoric one. Mycroft chose to deign it with an answer anyway.

“He’s not a wealthy man. He hasn’t got a job, has no income save that meagre Army pension of his, no savings. Even a flatshare will be a considerable financial effort for him. He can use the money.”

“Who can’t?” Ianto commented philosophically. “However, sir, I don’t think Dr. Watson would see spying on his flatmate as an honourable way to earn his living. Even if it would be done to ease a loving older brother’s concerns,” he added, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “He seems to be a man of strong moral principles.”

“In that case I’ll have to be a little more… persuasive,” the older Holmes said with a superior smile. Ianto shook his head.

“I’m afraid, sir, you’ll have to put up one hell of an appearance if you want to buy _that_ man.”

“Everyone has his price, Ianto,” Mycroft said mildly. “Even a war hero like Dr. John Watson.”

“Perhaps,” Ianto allowed. “But not everyone’s always _interested_.”

“Perhaps not,” Mycroft shrugged. “Would _you_ be interested in a little bet? If Dr. Watson accepts my offer, you’ll give Anthea the passwords to what’s left from Torchwood London’s Mainframe.”

“And if the good doctor rejects the offer?” Ianto asked.

“Unlikely,” Mycroft said with utmost confidence. “But for fairness’ sake: what would you want?”

“Some time alone with a certain Mr. Dekker in a soundproof room and unlimited access to the strongest truth serum on this planet,” Ianto replied darkly.

~TBC~


	6. 221B Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see from the descriptions, I go with some of the unaired pilot’s visuals. That will change, eventually, as the story progresses.

**221 BAKER STREET**

It was five minutes to seven o’clock when John Watson hobbled up Baker Street and reached the door marked 221B with at least 15 cm high, heavy digits in gold effect. A small and very pretty solid brass door knocker hung under the numbers, in a Victorian style that became popular around 1885. The house itself had a Victorian air about it, too, with a balcony that had a beautiful wrought iron railing.

Right under the balcony hung a large burgundy red sign, marking the ground floor shop in white letters as _Mrs Hudson’s Snack ‘n’ Sarnies – Breakfast – Lunch – Pasta_. Above the shop door was a light ad that said _CAFÉ RESTAURANT_. John stared at the shop with interest. The café was clearly closed and a great deal of redecorating was taking place within, but he hoped that it will re-open eventually, solving the problem of easily available food.

He didn’t notice the black cab pulling up at the kerb and almost jumped when he unexpectedly heard a deep baritone voice speaking behind him. “Mrs Hudson is our landlady.”

He turned around sharply and saw Sherlock Holmes getting out of the cab, reaching in through the window and handing some money to the cab driver. John limped over to the cab. “Ah, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please,” the other man said. They shook hands, then Sherlock thanked the cabbie and they turned back to the house.

“Well, this is a prime spot,” John commented, a little anxiously. “Must be expensive.”

“We’re getting a special deal,” Sherlock said nonchalantly. “Mrs Hudson owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida,” he paused. “I was able to help out.”

“So, you stopped her husband being executed?” John was impressed… only to shiver involuntarily when those strange, almost colourless eyes rested on him for a moment with frightening intensity.

“Oh no,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. “I ensured it.”

“You _what_?” John thought he hadn’t heard it correctly.

Sherlock shrugged. “The man was a serial killer; and quite insane, too. It would have been a shame if he hadn’t got executed due to his insanity when the States conveniently still have the death penalty, don’t you think?”

Without waiting for John’s answer, he ran up to the door and knocked. The door opened almost immediately, and out looked a neat little old lady, wearing the most hideous, flower-patterned blouse under her black cardigan that John had ever seen.

“Sherlock!” she exclaimed happily and beamed at the younger man like at a favourite son. Sherlock smiled back at her and, to John’s surprise, the two of them hugged warmly. Then Sherlock let go of her, stepped back to introduce John, and she invited them in.

Sherlock didn’t need to be told twice; as Mrs Hudson closed the door, he was already bouncing up the stairs to the first floor, not even checking whether John was following or not. John was following, of course, muttering under his breath in annoyance about bloody stairs and inconsiderate future flatmates. When he finally reached the top of the stairs, though, he found Sherlock waiting for him, and as he opened the door ahead of him, John felt immediately rewarded for his efforts.

He liked the main living room at first sight, despite the mess – there were all sorts of possessions and boxes scattered around it – and the exaggerated dominance of mauve in its colouring. It was a nice, cosy room, with comfortable armchairs that practically begged to sprawl over them and relax: one of them an overstuffed, old-fashioned one that matched the sofa, the other one surprisingly modern, all chrome and black leather covering the soft seat cushions.

Okay, the black bison skull with the headphones mounted onto the wall was a bit bizarre, but otherwise…

“Well, this could be very nice,” John commented. “Very nice indeed.”

Sherlock looked around happily. “Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely.”

“Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out,” John continued, giving said rubbish a disapproving look. Even before his military career, he’d always been fond of a well-ordered environment.

“So I went straight ahead and moved in,” Sherlock was saying at the same time.

“Oh…” John felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “So, this is all yours?”

Okay, the fact that Sherlock had moved in already explained the modern armchair – and the bizarre decoration. Why was the bison skull sporting headphones anyway? And why had it been painted black?

“Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit,” Sherlock muttered, making a half-hearted attempt to cover his mess with a different kind of mess.

John watched in tolerant amusement his potential flatmate throwing a couple of folders into a box and then taking his unopened mail across to the fireplace where he pinned them to the mantelpiece with a multi-tool knife. Then John’s eyes wandered along the mantelpiece, and on the other side of a beautiful, oval mirror (presumably Mrs Hudson’s possession, as he couldn’t imagine Sherlock owning such a delicate piece) he spotted something and his good mood was gone in an instant.

“That,” he said tonelessly, “is a _human_ skull.”

There could be no doubt about it. An average non-professional might have had difficulties to tell a plastic replica from the real, bleached human bone, but John was a doctor. A doctor who’d performed enough obductions to recognise the real item when he saw it.

_And_ he was a soldier who’d seen more than enough human skulls, bleached white in the desert sun, to have stored nightmare material that would last a lifetime. Keeping such an item in one’s living room as a decoration was against his sense of decency.

Hearing his statement, Sherlock stopped his highly creative (but not very effective) tidying-up action and glanced at the skull in a manner that could almost have been considered tender.

“Friend of mine,” he said nonchalantly; then he shrugged. “When I say ‘friend’...”

All right, this was definitely weird, and John was beginning to doubt the wisdom of moving in with such a madman. Even if Mike Stamford appeared to like him. Mike didn’t really count, as he liked just about everyone. Plus, he was easily fooled – had he not lived under the same roof with a criminal for years, without realising it?

Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, didn’t seem particularly bothered by Sherlock’s antics. Okay, so she owed him a favour; but beyond that, she seemed to genuinely like him. She’d even hugged him in the door. That husband of hers must have been quite a number if she was this happy to be rid of him. But didn’t the fact that she’d married that bloke in the first place prove her a terrible judge of character? What if she was wrong about Sherlock, too?

The object of his consideration followed them to the living room, picking up an abandoned cup and saucer while Sherlock took off his greatcoat and scarf and gave John a somewhat anxious glance, clearly eager to have the flat rented out.

“What do you think, then, Doctor Watson?” she asked. “There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

John stared at her in confusion. “Of course we’ll be needing two.”

Mrs Hudson leaned closer conspiratorially. “Oh, don’t worry; there’s all sorts round here,” she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Mrs Turner next door’s got _married_ ones.”

The tension and the weirdness of the situation finally caught up with John. He collapsed into the old, comfortable armchair and tried to decide whether he should, A: laugh hysterically, or B: cry tears of frustration, or C: get up and run as fast as his bad leg would allow while he still could.

~TBC~


	7. "Not Your Housekeeper!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I use some of the unaired pilot’s dialogue here, for the sake of canon continuity. In my eyes, a good AU remains as close to canon as possible, while taking a completely different turn. Let's hope that I've succeeded. ;)

**"NOT YOUR HOUSEKEEPER!"**

While John was considering his options (which, admittedly, were fairly limited in number), Mrs Hudson had drifted off to the kitchen, muttering something about _the state of this place already_ and started tidying it up. Sherlock, apparently forgotten about John’s presence, sat down at the old-fashioned bureau by the window and was rummaging through the papers cluttering its surface.

That reminded John of something. “Oh, by the way, I looked you up on the internet last night.”

Sherlock was typing away on his laptop at an alarming speed, answering his mail and didn’t even look up from it. “Anything interesting?”

“Found your website,” John replied. “ _The Science of Deduction_.”

“What did you think?” was there some hidden pride in the arrogant man’s voice?

“I found it quite amusing, to tell the truth,” John smiled faintly.

_That_ clearly hit a nerve. Sherlock turned around to him, without rising from his chair, which was a strangely twisted position for any living creature save a boa constrictor; his pale eyes were every bit as cold as those of a snake.

“ _Amusing_?” he repeated indignantly.

John raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and a retired plumber by his left hand.”

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped. “Like I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

“How?” John asked sceptically.

“You read the article,” Sherlock replied.

John shrugged. “The article was absurd.”

Sherlock finally stood up to face him. “You want the answer? The answer is I _observed_. And I not only know about his drinking habit, I even know that he’s left his wife,” he declared in a coldly triumphant manner.

_Yeah, and you still haven’t realized that “he” is a “she”_ , John thought, fighting the urge to laugh him in the face.

Fortunately for him, Mrs Hudson came back from the kitchen waving with the newspaper.

“What about these mysterious deaths then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street. Been a fourth one now.”

As if on clue, the sirens of a police car could be heard from the street. Sherlock walked over to the window of the living room and looked out.

“Yes, actually they are right up my street,” he said. “ _Literally_.”

John leaned forward onto his cane. “Can I just ask _what_ is your street?”

Sherlock waved impatiently towards the newspaper Mrs Hudson was still holding. “There has been a fifth one now.” He looked down at the car pulling up in front of the house. The vehicle was clearly a police car with its lights flashing on the roof. “And there’s something different this time.”

“A fifth _what_?” John was close to screaming in frustration.

Sherlock didn’t have the time to answer (if he’d intended to do so at all, which was doubtful) because a grey-haired man in a conservative suit appeared in the open door. He didn’t say a word, just stood there, his hands in his pockets.

“Where this time?” Sherlock asked in a clipped tone.

“Brixton,” the man replied tiredly. “Lauriston Gardens. Will you come?”

Sherlock made no visible attempts to do so – not yet anyway. “Who’s on forensics?” he asked instead.

“Anderson,” the man admitted.

Sherlock grimaced. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well, he won’t be your assistant,” the detective (because what else could he have been) shrugged.

Sherlock didn’t seem satisfied with that answer. “I _need_ an assistant.”

The detective ignored him. Instead, he repeated the question that seemed more important to him. “Will you come?”

“Not in a police car,” Sherlock replied with obvious reluctance. “I’ll be right behind.”

“Thank you,” the detective said with exaggerated politeness.

He looked at John and Mrs Hudson for a moment, as if wondering what _they_ were doing here; then he turned and hurried off down the stairs. Sherlock waited until he had reached the front door, then leapt into the air and clenched his fists triumphantly before twirling around the room happily.

“Oh, brilliant! Yes! And I thought it was gonna be a _dull_ evening! Honestly, can’t beat an imaginative serial killer when there’s nothing on the telly!”

He jumped over the coffee table to pick up his scarf and coat and started to put them on as he headed for the kitchen.

“Mrs Hudson, I’ll be out late tonight,” he announced, hooking the long, soft-looking blue scarf around his neck. “Might need some food.”

Mrs Hudson crossed her arms in a manner that clearly demonstrated her annoyance. “I’m your landlady, dear, _not_ your housekeeper.”

Sherlock, of course, didn’t pay any attention. He was too busy checking some weird-looking tools in a folding leather case.

“Something cold will do,” he continued on his way out. In the door he paused for a moment, suddenly remembering the potential flatmate he’d left behind in the living room. “John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!”

And with that, he was gone. Mrs Hudson turned back to John, shaking her head in fond exasperation.

“Look at him, dashing about! My first husband was just the same. A journalist, you see? Always on a case, always on the run. But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell.”

She couldn’t be more false about that, but John felt just too exhausted to correct her. Besides, sitting down right now sounded like a good idea.

Mrs Hudson, now in full mother hen mode, turned towards the kitchen again. “I’ll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg.”

“Damn my leg!” John burst out angrily, frustration getting to him at last. His response was instinctive and he immediately apologised seeing Mrs Hudson turn back to him in shock.

“Sorry,” he muttered, “I’m so sorry. It’s just sometimes this bloody thing ...” he bashed his leg with his cane in helpless fury.

Mrs Hudson gave her a benign look. “I understand, dear; I’ve got a hip,” touching the offending body part fleetingly, she turned towards the kitchen again. She was already in the door when John’s voice caught up with her.

“Cup of tea’d be lovely, thank you.”

“Just this once, dear,” she warned. “I’m _not_ your housekeeper.”

“Couple of biscuits too, if you’ve got ’em,” John added hopefully.

“ _Not_ your housekeeper!” she called back from the kitchen.

But somehow he had the feeling that there would be some biscuits on the tray when the tea would arrive.

~TBC~


	8. The Science of Deduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see from the descriptions, I go with some of the unaired pilot’s visuals. That will change, eventually, as the story progresses. The news article is from “A Study in Pink”, of course.

**THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION**

After Mrs Hudson had gone to the kitchen to make him tea, John picked up _The Times_ she’d left behind and scanned the article she’d been referring to. The headline said: **Fourth Poisoned Offer Found!** , and it featured a large photo of some blonde woman and next to it a much smaller one of the detective from before, identifying him as DI Lestrade.

His interest piqued, John started reading the article

_The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night in a building site in Greater London_ , _it said. Preliminary investigation suggests that she was poisoned; more than that, she presumably took the poison voluntarily. The police can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson, who went missing on October 12, and James Phillimore, a young student found dead in a sports centre on November 26. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The ongoing investigation is led by DI Lestrade, who’s assured the press that all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions._

“Reasonable precautions, my arse,” John muttered. The detective who’d just visited to fetch his new flatmate had clearly been out of his depth and very obviously clueless about the whole case.

He went on to read the next article – the statement of Sir Jeffrey’s wife.

_My husband was a happy man who lived life to the full_ , Margaret Patterson declared. _He loved his family and his work – and that he should have taken his own life in this way is a mystery and a shock to all who knew him._

“Yeah, and he probably cheated on you with his secretary, too,” John muttered.

Well, this was interesting stuff, for sure. Four related cases of mysterious poisoning: a rich businessman, some snotty kid on his way to sport, the actual Junior Minister for Transport – and now a fifth one? What happened to this city while he’d been in Afghanistan?

“A lot of things; most of them hopelessly boring,” the deep voice of his new flatmate said. Looking up, John saw him standing in the living room door, watching him with that frighteningly intensity again. “You’re a doctor,” he then said. “I fact, you’re an Army doctor.”

It wasn’t really a question, but John got to his feet nonetheless and turned to Sherlock who came back into the room again. “Yes.”

“Any good?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly.

Anger flared up in John. How did the man _dare_ to question his professional excellence as a doctor? He’d got _medals_ for outstanding service, dammit!

“ _Very_ good,” he snapped. No use for false modesty here.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then?” Sherlock continued, still scrutinising him with that unnerving gaze. “Violent deaths.”

“Hmmm, yes,” John said noncommittally, wishing that the other man would finally get to the point.

“Bit of trouble, too, I bet,” Sherlock murmured in a low, almost seductive voice, and the memories slammed back into John’s mind like a sledgehammer.

The merciless heat of the desert sun… the scent of sweat, blood, weapon’s oil and burnt human flesh… the rush of adrenaline through his veins as he ran through the hail of bullets in a desperate effort to save lives, his own and those of his fallen comrades… the moans and cries of the wounded while he was operating on them in the middle of nowhere… the searing pain of the bullet tearing through his shoulder…

“Of course, yes,” he replied quietly, fighting the sudden nausea. “Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.

So why did he have the feeling that he’d never be so _alive_ again, even if he lived to be a hundred years old?

“Want to see some more?” Sherlock’s voice was low, barely audible, but John could suddenly feel the excitement rush through his body again – a feeling he hadn’t realised how much he was missing ever since his return.

“Oh God, yes!” he said fervently.

“Come on then,” Sherlock spun on his heels and stormed out of the room and down the stairs, without checking if John would follow him. Which he did, of course, limping after his flatmate as fast as his bad leg allowed.

“Sorry, Mrs Hudson,” he called out to their landlady who was standing near the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll skip the tea. Off out!”

“ _Both_ of you?” she asked in understandable confusion.

Sherlock had almost reached the front door by then, but at that he turned and strode back to her.

“There’s no point sitting at home when finally something halfway interesting happens,” he declared, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her noisily on the cheek,

“Look at you, all happy!” she said reprovingly. “It’s not decent!” She couldn’t help but smile, though, as he headed for the front door again.

“Who cares about decent?” Sherlock called back over his shoulder. “The game, Mrs Hudson, the game is on!” With that, he walked out onto the street to hail an approaching black cab. “Taxi!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the following thirty minutes they were sitting in the cab, on their way to Brixton, and John listened in open-mouthed awe to his new flatmate who led him through a long, interlinked chain of brilliant deductions. Explaining how he’d read John’s career and living conditions from his haircut and his stance (=military), from his brief conversation with Mike Stamford he’d overheard (=medical training at _Bart’s_ ), from the suntan that didn’t go beyond neck and wrist (=long time abroad but not sunbathing) and from his psychosomatic limp (=wounded in action), and how he’d come to the final deduction: Afghanistan or Iraq.

He loudly clicked the ‘k’ sound at the end of the final word, which made John giggle nervously.

“You said I had a therapist,” he then said. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp – _of course_ you’ve got a therapist,” he said. “Then there’s your brother.”

“My brother, right,” John repeated, suppressing a grin as Sherlock launched another brilliant string of deductions, all based on his phone. Rattling down unerringly why it _had_ to be a gift from a family member – a sibling, more accurately – who’d got it from a wife. Why it _had_ to be a recent gift, how the marriage _had_ to be in trouble and how it _had_ to be Harry who’d left Clara, not the other way round. He even correctly deduced that Harry was a drinker, from the small scratches around the power connection; and how he, John, wouldn’t go to Harry for help because of the drinking.

The only point he’d missed was Harry’s actual gender, but that really wasn’t his fault. Most people wouldn’t think of a woman by that nickname. Which only showed that even the brilliant, arrogant Sherlock Holmes had something in common with most people.

It was a comforting thought, actually.

“There you go, you see,” Sherlock finished triumphantly. “You were right.”

“I was right?” John didn’t have a clue where that came from. “Right about _what_?”

“The police don’t consult amateurs,” Sherlock replied, looking out of the side window haughtily. But he was biting his lower lip as he was waiting for John’s reaction. Not quite so sure about himself as he’d like others to think, apparently.

“That… was amazing,” John declared, and he meant it, because aside from Harry’s gender, Sherlock had been spot on. Sherlock turned to him in apparent surprise.

“You think so?” he asked after a few moments, and there was almost some child-like eagerness in his voice. John felt his heart contract painfully at that obvious hunger for appreciation.

“Of course it was,” he replied with as much conviction as he could manage; which, in this case, was a lot. “It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

Sherlock accepted the honest reassurance with a slight nod. “That’s not what people normally say,” he then said, but there was amusement in his voice rather than hurt.

“What do people normally say?” John asked, curious.

Sherlock smiled briefly. “’Piss off!’” he said

And then they both grinned as their journey continued.

~TBC~


	9. Rubbing Shoulders With the Police

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, this part is less pilot-wise. Some lines of the dialogue are from Ep 1.01 – A Study in Pink and belong to Steven Moffat, may his muse never abandon him.

**RUBBING SHOULDERS WITH THE POLICE**

The cab finally arrived at Lauriston Gardens. They got out; Sherlock paid the driver and led John directly towards the police tape strung across the road.

“Did I get anything wrong?” he asked casually… way too casually, if the vague anxiety in his voice was any indication.

It must have been hard, this constant urge to prove how smart he was – to others and to himself, John thought. He decided to let him have his illusion for another moment.

“Harry and me don’t get on, never have,” he started to count down the facts, limping along with Sherlock with some effort to keep up with his long-legged stride. “Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they’re getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker.”

Sherlock was clearly impressed with himself. “Spot on, then,” he declared in unmistakable delight. “I didn’t expect to be right about everything.”

_Oh yes, you did_ , John thought before delivering the blow. “And Harry’s short for Harriet.”

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. “Harry’s your _sister_?”

John ignored him, continuing onwards. “Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?”

“A _sister_!” Sherlock repeated furiously, through gritted teeth.

John valiantly suppressed a grin. “No, seriously, what am I doing here?” he insisted, but Sherlock paid him no attention.

“There’s always something,” he said in exasperation and started to walk again.

As they approached the police tape, a bitterly beautiful, young black woman in a police uniform intercepted them. Her demeanour towards Sherlock was openly hostile. John wondered why.

“Hello, freak,” she greeted the detective, her tone deliberately insulting.

Sherlock, however, didn’t rise to the bait. “I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

She crossed her arms, still blocking their way. “Why?”

“I was invited,” Sherlock replied with a charming smile that was about as false as home-made 50-pound notes.

She still wasn’t buying it; or she was simply being obnoxious, John couldn’t tell. “Why?” she repeated.

“I think he wants me to take a look,” Sherlock still displayed that small, arrogant smile of his, and she finally gave in, lifting the tape.

“Well, you know what _I think_ , don’t you?” Actually, it was written all over her face; a blind man could have read it.

Sherlock lifted the tape and ducked underneath it. “Always, Sally,” he replied cheerfully. Then he breathed in through his nose, as if sniffing her. It was… creepy, John decided. “I even know you didn’t make it home last night.”

For a moment the shock seemed to take away her voice, making John quite sure that Sherlock was right. Then she seemed to notice him for the first time.

“Who’s this?” she demanded

“Colleague of mine,” Sherlock said nonchalantly. “Doctor Watson, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan. An old _friend_ ,” he added, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Like the skull on the mantelpiece?” John asked innocently and was rewarded with a barely visible twitching of the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

For a moment, the absurd mental image of Sherlock collecting the skulls of his friends, like the mad emperor, the one with the crazy hair in _Babylon 5_ , did with his enemies, and displaying them on the mantelpiece to have an audience all the time, was so sharp that he had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep himself from laughing hysterically.

“A colleague?” Sergeant Donovan repeated in disbelief. “How do you get a colleague?” she looked at John as if she would study some unusual lab species “What, did he follow you home?”

John started to feel uncomfortable… and most decidedly unwanted. “Look, maybe I'll just wait and...”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted, lifting the tape for him.

As John ducked under it, Donovan swapped out her radio. “Freak’s here,” she said to somebody. “Bringing him in.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
She led them to one of the nearby houses – clearly an abandoned one if its vacant, blank windows were any indication; or perhaps under reconstruction. Sherlock didn’t run into the house at once as John had expected him to do. Instead, he took his time to look all around the area and at the ground as they approached. As they reached the pavement, a bearded, bespectacled man in a blue forensic suit came out of the house.

“Ah, Anderson,” Sherlock greeted him with false cheerfulness. “Here we are again.”  
The disdain in his voice was palpable. The forensic specialist whose name was apparently Anderson looked at him with equal distaste.

“It’s a crime scene,” he declared sourly. “I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?”

“Quite clear,” Sherlock replied amiably. Way too amiably, John thought.

“Your magic tricks might impress Inspector Lestrade, but they don’t work on me,” Anderson continued, his hostility obvious.

“M-hm,” Sherlock replied noncommittally. “Is your wife away for long?”

Anderson snorted in disdain. “Oh, don’t pretend you worked _that_ out. Somebody told you that.”

Sherlock did that strange sniffing… _thing_ , breathing in deeply through his nose as he’d done with Sergeant Donovan.

“Your deodorant told me that,” he declared, and despite his previous amazement at the man’s deducing skills, John briefly considered the possibility that Sherlock was mad after all.

The forensic expert seemed to share his suspicion. “My deodorant?”

Sherlock stared at him with an odd expression on his face; John could have sworn that he’d even stopped breathing. “It’s for _men_ ,” he whispered dramatically.

Anderson rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Well, _of course_ it’s for men! _I’m_ wearing it!”

“So’s Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock riposted without missing a beat, with the perverse pleasure of somebody who’d just successfully knifed an enemy to the death. Anderson turned around, looking at the pretty Sergeant in shock. Sherlock sniffed pointedly again. “I think it just vaporised. May I go in?”

Anderson whirled around back to him and pointed at him angrily. “You – you listen to me, okay? Whatever you’re trying to imply...”

“I’m not implying anything,” Sherlock interrupted, heading past Donovan towards the front door. “I’m sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over,” he looked back, delivering the killing blow mercilessly. “And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.”

Anderson and Donovan stared at him in horror, which inspired him to a smug smile as he swung around and went into the house. John followed, unable to resist a brief look at Donovan’s knees, which were in a fairly rough state indeed. He shook his head. Why would a woman as pretty and opinionated as she lower herself (quite literally) to a guy like this Anderson character? She could have done much better.

“Right,” Anderson mumbled in helpless fury. “Just... just go in. Just, just go.”

John found Sherlock and the Detective Inspector in a room on the ground floor where Lestrade was putting on a forensic suit. Sherlock pointed to a pile of similar items.

“You need to wear one of these,” he told John.

That caught the Detective Inspector’s attention; he looked at John warily. “Who’s this?”

“He’s with me,” Sherlock replied, taking his gloves off.

Understandably enough, the Detective Inspector wasn’t satisfied with that answer. “But who _is_ he?”

That earned him a glacial look from Sherlock. “I said he’s with _me_.”

A bit uncomfortable for becoming the subject of their confrontation, John took his jacket off and picked up a coverall obediently. All Sherlock picked up was a pair of latex gloves. John frowned.

“Aren’t you gonna put one on?” It was a crime scene, after all, and Anderson had been right in _one_ thing: contaminating it wouldn’t be helpful.

Sherlock just glared at him sternly and John shook his head. “Silly me. What was I _thinking_?”

Sherlock ignored him. “So where are we?” he asked the Detective Inspector.

“Upstairs,” Lestrade, too, picked up a pair of latex gloves and started climbing the stairs, certain without checking that they would follow.

~TBC~


	10. Crime Scene Investigations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I use some lines from the unaired pilot and some from the actual episode, _A Study in Pink_. It’s a fine line I have to walk here. *g*

**CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATIONS**

They followed the Detective Inspector up a circular staircase that, at least for John, seemed to have no end at all. Especially as he had to balance on the stairs with those stupid white cotton coverings over his shoes; as if his bad leg hadn’t made his balance precarious already. Sherlock, of course, was bouncing up the stairs like a rubber ball, putting the latex gloves on as he went.

“I can give you two minutes,” the Detective Inspector said as they reached the top of the stairs.

“May need longer,” Sherlock replied casually. “What’ve you found out so far?”

“Footprint analysis says the only other person in the room during the last twelve hours was a man about five foot seven, and it seems he and the victim arrived together by car,” Lestrade told them. “All identification is missing on the body, just like all the others. No idea who she is or where she's from.”

He opened the door to a room two storeys above the ground floor. The room was empty of furniture except for a rocking horse in the far corner – could it once have been a nursery? The yellowed wallpaper hanging off the wall in strips showed faded characters from Disney cartoons, so yeah, it probably had. Emergency portable lighting had been set up, presumably by the police. Scaffolding poles held up part of the ceiling near where a couple of large holes had been knocked through one of the walls.

John had never thought that there could be any place more depressing than his little bed-sit – now he’d been taught better.

As a sharp contrast to the faded environment, a woman’s body was lying face down on the bare floorboards in the middle of the room. She was wearing a bright pink overcoat and high-heeled pink shoes. Her hands were flat on the floor either side of her head; her face, strangely peaceful in death, was young, soft and framed by long blonde hair. John’s heart filled with pain and sadness as he looked down at her body. She seemed to have been a nice woman; she didn’t deserve to die like this, in some run-down building, alone. Nobody did.

Sherlock walked a few steps into the room ahead of them and then stopped, holding one hand out in front of himself as he focused on the corpse. The three of them stood there silently for several long seconds, then Sherlock glared across the room to Lestrade.

“Shut up,” he growled.

The Detective Inspector stared at him in confusion. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking,” Sherlock snapped. “It’s annoying.”

The Detective Inspector and John exchanged a slightly exasperated look, the former clearly used to such reactions. Ignoring them, Sherlock slowly approached the corpse from the side. His attention was immediately drawn to the fact that scratched into the floorboards by the woman’s left hand was the word RACHE. His eyes flicked to her fingernails.

“The index and middle nails are broken and ragged at the ends with the nail polish chipped,” he murmured. “The other nails are still immaculate; the index finger rests at the bottom of the ‘e’ as if she was still trying to carve into the floor when she died – left handed!”

He then squatted down beside the body, ran his gloved hand along the back of the pink coat, and looked at his fingers. “Wet.”

He reached into the coat pockets and found a folding umbrella, in the same eye-biting shade of pink, in one of them. Running his fingers along the folds of the material, he inspected his glove again. "Hmm. Dry.”

He put the umbrella back into her pocket, then moves up to the collar of the coat and ran his fingers underneath it before once again looking at his fingers. “Wet.”

Reaching into his pocket he took out a small magnifier, clicked it open and closely inspects the delicate gold bracelet on her left wrist. "Clean,” then the gold earring in her left ear, “clean,” and then the gold chain around her neck, “clean again.”

Finally, he moved on to look at her wedding ring. “This one’s dirty, though… interesting,” he carefully worked the ring off her finger and held it up to look at the inside. “But clean in the inside, so it’s been regularly removed. Hmmm…”

He slid the ring back onto the woman’s finger, nodded in satisfaction, pocketed the magnifier and the gloves and, getting out his phone, he began typing on it.

“Well, she's from out of town clearly,” he muttered. “Planned to spend a single night in London before returning home, so far, so obvious.”

”Obvious?” the Detective Inspector asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Yes, obvious. Back of the right leg,” Sherlock replied impatiently, his eyes still fixed on his phone; then he grinned smugly as he clearly found the answer he was looking for. “And it’s also glaringly obvious that she came from Cardiff.”

That was a bit more than John could leave without comment. “Sorry – obvious?” he asked.

“What about the message, though?” Lestrade chimed in at the same time.

“She’s German,” Anderson commented from where he is leaning casually against the doorway. “ _Rache_ is German for _revenge_. She could be trying to tell us something …”

Sherlock walked up to the door while Anderson was still speaking and slammed it shut right in his face.

“Yes, thank you for your input,” he said with biting sarcasm.

“So she’s German?” the Detective Inspector asked in confusion.

“Of course she’s not, don’t be an idiot!” Sherlock snapped; then he looked at John. “Doctor Watson, what do you think?”

“Of the message?” John was every bit as confused as the Detective Inspector.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of the _body_. You’re a medical man."

“Wait, no” the Detective Inspector protected. “We have a whole team right outside.”

“They won’t work with me,” Sherlock hissed.

“I’m breaking every rule letting _you_ in here,” the Detective Inspector reminded him.

“Yes,” Sherlock’s face was frozen into an angry grimace. “Because you _need_ me.”

The Detective Inspector glared at him for a moment, then lowered his eyes helplessly. “Yes, I do,” he admitted in resignation. “God help me.”

Sherlock no longer paid him any attention. “Doctor Watson.”

“Hm?” John looks up from the body to Sherlock, then turned his head to the Detective Inspector, silently seeking his permission. The soldier in him wouldn’t allow blundering into the scene the same way Sherlock did.

“Oh, do as he says,” Lestrade said a little tetchily. “Help yourself.” He turned and opened the door, going outside. “Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.”

Meanwhile Sherlock and John had walked over to the body. Sherlock squatted down on the right-hand side of it and John painfully lowered himself to one knee on the other side, leaning heavily on his cane to support himself. Putting his cane down, he leaned forward on one hand to look more closely at the body.

“Well?” Sherlock demanded impatiently.

John gave him a wary look. “What am I doing here?” he asked in a low voice.

“Helping me make a point,” Sherlock replied in the same manner.

John raised an eyebrow. “I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent.”

“Yeah, well, this is more fun,” Sherlock said with a grimace that wasn’t funny _at all_. John still couldn’t help taking offence.

“ _Fun_?” he repeated in disapproval. “There’s a woman lying dead.”

“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper,” Sherlock returned. “Two men and three women are lying dead already; keep talking and there will be more. Now: cause of death?”

~TBC~


	11. Pink!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I use here some of the unaired pilot’s dialogue. However, as you’ll see later, this is a very different situation.
> 
> My thanks to my good friend, [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=saki101)[**saki101**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=saki101) who helped me transcribing some of the lines. I’d never have managed that on my own.

**PINK!**

John suppressed a sigh as he dragged his other leg down into a kneeling position and then leaned forward so that he could look more closely at the woman’s body. He put his head close to hers and sniffed to check for the smell of booze but found nothing. He could smell the unpleasant stench of vomit, though, so he pulled back fairly quickly. He lifted her hand to check on the skin then straightened up to kneeling again and looked at Sherlock.

“Yeah... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs.”

Sherlock interrupted him with an impatient gesture. “She was poisoned.”

John raised a surprised eyebrow. “How would you know that?”

“Because they were _all_ poisoned,” Sherlock replied impatiently.

John wasn’t so easily persuaded, though. “By whom?”

“By themselves,” Sherlock answered testily.

“Themselves?” John repeated in surprise. “The papers didn’t say anything about suicides.”

“We’ve identified the drugs,” Lestrade, who’d come back into the room and was now standing just inside the doorway offered, but he was rudely interrupted by Sherlock who managed to wave him off without even turning back to him, which was quite a feat unless one was _really_ limber – which Sherlock apparently was.

“Doesn’t matter; it was _poison_!”

Lestrade crossed his arms with a long-suffering expression on his face. Sherlock ignored him practically crawling over the body to check on details that made only sense to him,

“The same pattern every time,” he murmured. “Each of them disappearing from their normal lives,” he sniffed the dead woman’s palm, then her fingernails. “From the theatre… from their home… from the office… from a pub… and then a few hours later they turn up where they’re not supposed to be,” he was now sniffing the back of the woman’s hand; then he pulled back the sleeve of her coat to take a look at her wrist, “dead.” He looked under her collar again, then lifted her hair, too. “No sign of violence on the body, no suggestion of compulsion. Each of them killed by the same poison and, as far as we can tell, taken it voluntarily.”

Lestrade had apparently had enough. “Sherlock, I said two minutes! Tell me everything you’ve got.”

Sherlock whipped out his phone to check something and smiled. “Okay, take this down,” he said absent-mindedly.

The Detective Inspector, however, clearly couldn’t be bothered with taking notes. “Just tell me what you’ve got!” he demanded.

Sherlock looked at him with so much honest confusion that John’s heart went out to him. “You’re not gonna write this down?”

“Sherlock!” the Detective Inspector bellowed, obviously at the end of his rope.

“It’s all right,” John interfered on Sherlock’s behalf who seemed almost hurt by Lestrade’s lack of appreciation and took out his notebook and pen. “I, um, I can do it.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock beamed at him; then he took a deep breath and began to rattle down his deductions with such insane speed that John was barely able to write down the key phrases.

It made him wish Harry were present; she was very good at shorthand. When she happened to stay sober, that is.

“Victim is in her late twenties,” Sherlock was speaking a mile in a minute in the meantime. “Professional person, going by her clothes; presumably something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. That’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

“Suitcase?” the Detective Inspector repeated with a frown. John looked around the room but couldn’t see a suitcase anywhere, either.

“Suitcase, yes,” Sherlock replied impatiently and went on to tell them about the woman being unhappily married and having a string of lovers, none of which knew she was married.

“Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up!” Lestrade burst out.

Sherlock gave him an irritated look and pointed down at the dead woman’s left hand. “Her wedding ring. Look at it: it’s too tight. That means she’s been married for a while. Also,” he lifted the hand in question and turned it so that the other two could see it, “there’s grime in the gem setting. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. That says a lot about the state of the marriage.”

He picked up speed, proving them with merciless deduction, based on the state of her jewellery and on the size of her hypothetical suitcase why she must have been a serial adulteress. John was fairly blown away.

“That’s fantastic!” he said in open-mouthed awe.

Sherlock stopped for a moment, turned to him and said in a low voice. “D’you know you do that out loud?”

John blushed, realising that he must have sounded like some hare-brained teenager meeting their first pop star. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’ll shut up.”

For some reason, _that_ seemed to embarrass Sherlock for a change, although he managed to sound absurdly pleased at the same time – only God knew how. “No, it’s... fine.”

The Detective Inspector, however, seemed a lot more sceptical.

“There was no suitcase,” he told Sherlock, crossing his arms again in a challenging manner.

“Sorry?” Sherlock was honestly taken aback.

“You keep saying ‘suitcase’!” Lestrade elaborated. “There wasn’t one.”

“Oh!” Sherlock said in surprise. “I was assuming you had taken it away.”

“There was a handbag,” Lestrade said with a shrug. “Why did you say she had a case?”

“Because she did!” Sherlock snapped. “Her handbag, was there a mobile phone in it?”

“No,” Lestrade replied simply.

Sherlock shook his head in confusion. “That’s odd. That’s very odd.”

Lestrade looked at him as if seeking for sure signs of insanity on his face. “Why?”

“Never mind,” Sherlock waved impatiently. “We have to find her case!”

“How d’you know she had a case?” John asked.

Sherlock launched into another rapid-fire explanation about how the splash patterns the hypothetical suitcase left on her right leg proved the existence of said case in the first place, and how the state of her coat and umbrella proved – combined with the weather report that he’d checked on his phone – that she came from Cardiff and only meant to stay one night.

“Maybe she checked into a hotel and left her case there,” John suggested.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never have left any hotel with her hair still looking...” he stopped talking as he made a sudden realisation. “Oh!” His eyes widened and his face lit up. “Oh!” He started to hurry down the stairs.

Lestrade leaned over the railings. “What is it, what?”

Sherlock stopped for a moment and looked up at him. “Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

“We can’t just wait!” Lestrade protested.

“Oh, we’re done waiting!” Sherlock replied. “Where she was found, she couldn’t be here very long, is that right?”

“Not long at all,” Lestrade replied. “Less than an hour.”

“Less than an hour,” Sherlock repeated, thinking furiously. “An hour! News black-out. Can you do that? Don’t say that you’ve found her, nothing for a day.”

“Why?” Lestrade asked, honestly perplexed.

“Look at her,” Sherlock yelled, “really _look_! Houston, we have a mistake. Back in a moment!” He reached the bottom of the stairs and disappeared from their view.

“ _What_ mistake?!” Lestrade called after him in frustration.

Sherlock came back and ran up a couple of stairs before yelling up to him. “PINK!”

He hurried off again. Lestrade looked after him for a moment, baffled, then called out to Anderson and his team who had been waiting on the next landing down. “Anderson! You can come in now.”

Anderson came up the stairs, pushing past John rather urgently. "I'm here. So? What was the point in all that?"

"We're after a psychopath,” Lestrade told him.

"And you're bringing in another psychopath to help,” Anderson pointed out sourly.

Lestrade shrugged. "If that's what it takes," he turned and pointed to the room "All yours. Get on with it."

John found it better to get out of the way, but not without contributing his own part. He held out his notebook to Lestrade. "My notes. Do you want me to, um..."

The Detective Inspector gave him a blank look. "I'm sorry, you're..."

"Doctor Watson," John supplied.

Lestrade pointed down the stairs. "I'm sorry; you're going to have to go, Doctor Watson. Don't need your notes."

For some reason, John felt insulted on Sherlock’s behalf. The man’s deductions had been absolutely brilliant, and the police didn’t want them in written form to use later? Were they insane or just insanely jealous? In either case, it wasn’t his job to make them see the light. If they wanted to fail again, big time, it was their problem.

"OK," he said amiably and hobbled off towards the stairs.

~TBC~


	12. A Friendly Warning... Or Is It?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, some lines of the dialogue are from the unaired pilot. Not mine, obviously.  
> Also, brownie points for those who get the Star Trek: DS9 reference.

**A FRIENDLY WARNING – OR IS IT?**

Obviously forgotten by everyone, John rested for a moment on the landing, before starting to make his way down the stairs. Some police officers hurried up in the wake of the forensic team. One of them bumped against him, throwing him off-balance and making him lurch heavily against the banisters.

John gritted his teeth. No-one would have _dared_ to treat Captain Watson like this while still in the Army – the rudeness made it adamantly clear how much of standing he had lost through the fact that he’d been invalided. The man hurried on without a word; at least his colleague had the decency to look at John in silent apology as he passed.

John returned the gesture with a brief nod; there was no need to lower himself to the level of a rude idiot. Then he regained his balance and continued hobbling down the stairs. He couldn’t wait to finally get rid of the forensic suit and those ridiculous cotton coverings on his shoes. They made the simple act of getting down the stairs a perilous task.

It took him about ten minutes to shed the coverall and put his jacket back on, notebook and pen forgotten in his inner pocket. He walked out onto the street, trying to find a sign of Sherlock but found none. With a weary sigh, he limped towards the police tape and saw the pretty, uniformed sergeant Sherlock had introduced as Sally Donovan lean into a waiting car and explain something to the driver with forced patience.

“Okay, look, we’re gonna need Jones and Adams at the top of the road. There’s so many people around…” Seeing John's approach, she straightened. “He’s gone,” she told him.

John frowned. “Who, Sherlock Holmes?”

The sergeant nodded. “Yeah, he just took off. He does that,” she added with obvious disapproval, and John found himself in agreement. The last Sherlock could have done was to wait for him; after having dragged him through half London to take a look at a murdered woman!

“Is he coming back?”

It was a stupid question, as she had no means to know, but John was frustrated. And his leg hurt again. Stupid wet weather!

The sergeant, however, felt at least obliged to answer.

“Didn’t look like it,” she said, which probably meant that Sherlock had stormed off like a madman… the way he’d left the crime scene.

“Right,” John muttered, looking around thoughtfully, unsure what to do.

Should he return to Baker Street and wait for Sherlock?: Or would it be entirely safer to forget the man, the murder case, the whole idea of a flatshare and go back to his depressing little bed-sit? With Mike’s help, he could find a job eventually. If nothing else, a locum job. There was always an opening for doctors desperate enough to stand in for those who had fallen ill or something.

“Right… yes,” he muttered again; then he turned back to the sergeant. “Sorry, where am I?”

“Brixton,” she replied in a friendly enough manner. She didn’t seem to have any problems with _him_ , so John risked the question that had been bothering him since leaving the house.

“Er, d’you know where I could get a cab? It’s just, er... well...” he looked down at his cane awkwardly, “… my leg.”

She came closer to lift the tape for him. “What’s wrong with your leg? Car accident?”

He usually hated when people asked about his leg, but there was nothing beyond honest interest in her question; no morbid curiosity and no pity. To his surprise, he found himself telling her the truth.

“It’s not an injury; nobody really knows _what_ it is. The doctors keep telling me it’s purely psychosomatic,” he gritted his teeth. “I don’t care. It _hurts_! And this lousy weather doesn’t help.”

She nodded in understanding. “I had an uncle; he used to be a pilot. Once he crashed with his plane; got rescued with nary a scratch on him, but he could never use his legs properly again,” she lifted the tape. “Try the main road. There are always cabs looking for a fare.”

“Thanks,” John murmured, ducking under the tape.

“But you’re not his friend,” she said unexpectedly, instead of the usual ‘you’re welcome’ or ‘don’t mention it’.

John turned back to her in surprise. “What do you mean? Whose friend?”

“He doesn’t _have_ friends,” she continued without further clarification, although John guessed that Sherlock was meant. “So who _are_ you?”

“I’m...” John hesitated because really, how was he supposed to answer _that_ question? He didn’t even know the answer himself. “I’m nobody,” he finally said, his voice full of bitterness when he realised the sad truth of his own words. “I just met him.”

She nodded as if this were a story she’d heard many times; a story that had always ended badly. “Okay, bit of advice then,” she said. “Stay away from that guy.”

Her voice was intense and her dark eyes were worried. Honestly worried. There was more going on than just a police officer being annoyed with an obnoxious amateur, John realised.

“Why?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer she might give him.

“You know why he’s here?” she answered his question with one of her own. “He’s not paid or anything. He _likes_ it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holms will be the one that put it there.”

John watched her expression closely to see if this was some kind of morbid joke but had to realise that it wasn’t. Sergeant Donovan truly believed what she was saying. She was genuinely afraid that one day this would happen.

Whether she was right about that or not, that was a different question, of course.

“Why would he do that?” John finally asked.

“Because he’s a psychopath,” she replied darkly. “And psychopaths get bored.”

It seemed as if she’d want to add something else, but in that moment Detective Inspector Lestrade appeared in the entrance of the house and yelled her name.

“Yeah, coming, sir,” she called back. But before she’d do so, she gave John a final warning look. “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes. For your own sake.”

John stared at her retreating back for a long moment before calling his thanks after her.

“No worries,” she replied without turning back.

~TBC~


	13. The Shadow of Torchwood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those not overly familiar with Torchwood: Maggie Hopley is indeed a canon character who featured in the 2nd Season episode “A Day in the Death”.

**THE SHADOW OF TORCHWOOD**

“He _is_ brilliant, even while limited by a human existence,” Mycroft said with something akin to pride in his voice. He’d been watching the crime scene in the company of Anthea and Ianto, courtesy of a microscopic router (alien technology, of course) installed in Sherlock’s smarthphone.

“The only thing he got wrong was the unhappily married part, but that’s something he really couldn’t know,” Ianto agreed, somewhat reluctantly.

Mycroft looked at him in surprise. “How can _you_ know about it?”

“Cos I know _her_ ,” Ianto replied, nodding at the picture of the poisoned woman. “Well, sort of. Owen had an encounter with her, almost two years ago. On a rooftop. It was her wedding anniversary, and she wanted to jump.”

“That would reinforce Sherlock’s analysis,” Anthea pointed out logically. Ianto shook his head.

“No; she wanted to jump cos her newly wed husband died in a car accident on their way from the wedding to the honeymoon. She was still picking confetti from her hair when it happened. They’d been married less than an hour.”

“Apparently, she didn’t jump, though,” Anthea said.

Ianto nodded. “Owen managed to talk her out of it. Reminding her that there still were many things in life worth living for. And… erm… showing her an alien device that produced a wonderful light show.”

“Not a detail we should share with my dear brother,” Mycroft said. “Do you know her name?”

“Ummm… Hopley, I think,” Ianto replied, having sought for the right piece of information in his photographic memory for less than ten seconds. “Yes, that’s it. Maggie Hopley. Last time I checked on her before the Hub got blown up; at that time she was working for one of the local women’s magazines, running the gossip column.,”

“You _checked_ on her?” Mycroft asked in surprise. “What for?”

Ianto looked at him seriously. “It was my job to keep an eye on people who’d had an alien encounter, be it alien technology or the aliens themselves. To see if the effect of Retcon still held.”

“You made her forget…”

“…that she was going to kill herself, yes, and why she reconsidered,” Ianto smiled grimly. “Being talked out of suicide by a zombie isn’t exactly a memory most people would want to keep anyway. We planted the suggestion in her mind that she’d gradually gotten over the trauma and was ready to start living again.”

“She wasn’t German, though, was she?” Mycroft asked.

“No,” Ianto said, “but the family of her late husband was. _Hopley_ is the Anglicised version of _Hoffner_.”

“In that case, annoying Mr Anderson might have been right,” Mycroft said. “Not that Sherlock would ever admit, of course.”

“Of course,” Ianto agreed.

“So what are we to do, sir?” Anthea asked. “Send him the file on Ms Hopley?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Oh, no; he wanted to do this for a living – he should do the legwork himself. However, we could… _nudge_ him into the right direction before anyone else dies.”

“Which direction would that be, sir?” Anthea asked. Extremely efficient she might be, but there was _one_ thing she lacked: imagination.

Mycroft gave her one of his pinched smiles. “I hoped Mr Jones would have a suggestion.”

Ianto thought for a moment – then a broad smile appeared on his face. “Yes, sir, I think I do.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Sherlock had just reached Baker Street, ready to stretch out on the sofa and do some thinking, when his phone made a _pling_ , announcing an incoming message. He fished it out of his coat pocket and glared at it in suspicion. The number was that of his brother’s ninja butler; what the hell did Jones want from him? He had a case; he didn’t have the time for Mycroft’s antics.

He opened the message with a scowl. It was short and cryptic.

_Detective Kathy Swanson, Cardiff Police. IJ_

And a phone number, presumably the one on which he could reach the detective. It was clearly a landline, which annoyed him. He preferred to text.

Was Mycroft now spying on his cases, too? It wouldn’t really surprise him. Well, if his brother wanted to help, he could as well give it a try. Jones _was_ Welsh, after all; perhaps he knew something. But Sherlock didn’t nurture any hopes that the butler would actually _tell_ him. No; if he wanted the information, he’d have to call the detective lady in Cardiff. It was, at least, a lead, and he decided to follow it.

He dialled the number, and his call was picked up almost immediately.

“Detective Swanson,” a deep, pleasant female voice said in a clipped manner.

_Single, in her early thirties_ , his brain supplied the details. _A parent, most likely; a single parent, too, used to be obeyed. Barely audible Welsh accent, with some ethnic colouring, so she’s been living there for a while but isn’t Welsh herself; probably black. Educated tones but not in the snobbish way, so university, but not the elite ones; Cardiff, most likely. Not a smoker, the voice is smooth, without those telling little scratches in it. Sounds professional, but not in that enforced way like Donovan; it comes to her naturally_.

Sherlock decided that she must be the no-nonsense type; he liked those. He briefly considered impersonating Lestrade, but decided against it in the end. She sounded smart enough to come behind the trick, and then she wouldn’t cooperate anymore.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he introduced himself; it was unlikely that the Cardiff police would have heard about him. “I work with Detective Inspector Lestrade from New Scotland Yard. We had a female victim without identification, who’s presumably from Cardiff. May I send you a photo through my phone for possible identification?”

“You can try,” Detective Swanson replied, “but unless she’s got a criminal record, it’s gonna be difficult. We don’t have a full database of driving licences – yet.”

“It’s worth a try, though,” Sherlock said. “Can you give me the number of your mobile phone?”

“I can do better,” she answered. “I can give you the e-mail address of my office, and as soon as your photo arrives, we can run it through the face recognition software. It’s actually a pretty advanced version, so even if she hasn’t got a criminal record, she might be found on some archived CCTV footage.”

She was talking too much. Sherlock was getting impatient. Still, he held back because this was his best chance to get the victim identified by the police, and he didn’t want to jeopardise it.

“Very well,” he said. “Give me the address.”

She rattled it down and he saved it on his smartphone, sending her the photo at once.

He then texted: _Call me if you have something. SH._

To his surprise, his phone rang less than five minutes later.

“I know who your victim is,” Detective Swanson said without preamble. “Her name is Maggie Hopley.”

“So she _does_ have a criminal record?” that surprised him. All right, she was a serial adulteress, but she didn’t seem to have a connection to any criminal activities.

“No,” Swanson replied, “but she was involved in a crime, nearly three years ago.”

“As a helper?” Sherlock asked, still doubtful.

“No,” Swanson answered grimly. “As a victim.”

~TBC~


	14. Saved by the Bell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to canon stuff for a short while, but it’s transient. The title of this part will actually make sense – only later on. Some lines are quoted from the unaired pilot or from the first episode, respectively. Sorry, but it was necessary.

**SAVED BY THE BELL**

John suppressed a sigh and began to limp up the main road as Sergeant Donovan had suggested. It was farther than he’d expected, and soon he was leaning heavily on his cane. Another couple of metres and he had to stop for a moment to catch his breath, silently cursing his injury, rehab and the sorry shape in which he was as a result.

Dammit, but he had really become a shadow of his own self, in a mere few months! At the age of thirty-nine, he was a burned-out husk already! A burden for himself and for those around him.

There was a subtle change in the night lights, as if a cloud had passed before the moon. He glanced up – and his mouth hung literally open for a moment. Standing on top of a tall Victorian building nearby, in the middle of its many ornate chimney pods, stood Sherlock Holmes, dramatically backlit by the almost full moon. It was like a scene from one of those over-romanticized vampire films that seemed to have become so popular lately.

John couldn’t help himself. The whole thing was just too hilarious to bear. He bent over his cane and giggled uncontrollably. Sherlock Holmes, the consulting vampire! Well, it was a pretty sight, for sure, and with that dramatic greatcoat Sherlock certainly could have pulled a Prince of the Night convincingly.

John looked around to see if any of the police were watching. Sergeant Donovan would have _loved_ the scene, he was certain about that. But no, there was no-one around. He glanced back up to the roof. Sherlock was still there, clearly oblivious to being watched, and was looking all around the area from his high vantage point, as if trying to find something… or someone.

_Like a predator trying to locate his prey_ , the thought occurred to John, wondering if it was Sergeant Donovan’s influence. After all, Mike wouldn’t try to sell him to a psychopathic murderer, would he?”

“Need a cab, sir?” he jumped and nearly lost his balance. He was so focused on Sherlock on the rooftop that he hadn’t heard the taxi pulling up right next to him.

“Cab, sir?” the driver repeated, staring at him through the open side window. He was a relatively young man – younger than John anyway – and strangely colourless: pale, with curly straw blond hair and watery eyes.

John sighed. “Well, why not?” he climbed into the back seat with a last glance at the rooftop, but Sherlock was already gone.

“Address?” the cabbie asked.

For some reason he couldn’t explain, not even to himself, John gave him the address of his bed-sit. True, it was much closer to Brixton than Baker Street, which meant a much lesser fee, but that wasn’t the reason. Suddenly, he wanted to be alone and couldn’t wait to be back in that dank little place. That was where he belonged, with the rest of the useless junk that had become his life.

Clearly, the police didn’t need him; and neither did Sherlock. He had briefly given in to nurturing false hopes, which was childish.

Sitting upright in the back of the taxi, he started rocking backwards and forwards slightly as if urging it to go faster. The cabbie was watching him in the rear view mirror with the strange intensity of a snake staring at a bird it had selected for dinner.

"You late or something?” he finally asked.

John glanced at his watch, then out of the front window to see where they were. "No, not particularly. Why?"

There was an edge in his voice, and the creepy young man back-pedalled. "Sorry. You just look a bit… wired."

"Wired?” John snapped. “What do you mean _wired_?"

Clearly intimidated, the cabbie didn’t answer, just kept watching him nervously in the mirror. A few minutes later the cab stopped in front of the building that housed his bed-sit. John paid the cabbie and limped into the building without looking back.

Switching the light on, he collapsed on his bed with a weary sigh. Then he put his cane down beside him and opened the drawer of the bedside table, revealing his gun and his laptop. After a moment of hesitation, he reached fort he gun… not for the first time, but probably – hopefully – for the last one.

Before he could have grabbed the weapon, though, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen. _Unknown number_ , it said. He ignored the call and bent down to undo his shoes. He might as well make himself comfortable for this final act.

The phone rang again. _Unknown number_ , it said again. John ignored it and undid his left shoe. The phone kept ringing. Still the unknown number. John rolled his eyes and undid his other shoe, toeing both shoes off end enjoying the small comfort of stocking feet.

The damn phone rang again. _Unknown number_ , as before. John suppressed a frustrated sigh and finally picked it up. “Hello?”

“There is a security camera on the building to your left,” the male voice on the other end of the connection was soft, cultured, posh… and just a tiny bit threatening. “Do you see it?”

“Who’s this?” John demanded. “Who’s speaking?”

“Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?” the voice continued unerringly.

John hobbled to the window and spotted the CCTV camera high up on the wall of a nearby building. He pulled a face. “Yeah, I see it.”

It would have been hard not to. The thing was _very_ visible.

“Watch,” the vice said, and the camera swung around, pointing directly at John. “There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?”

John looked across to the second camera, which is also pointed towards his window.

“And finally, at the top of the building on your right,” the voice continued.

John stares up into the third camera which was also watching him, apparently, although the reason escaped him.

“How are you doing this?” he asked, but – as expected – he didn’t get any answer

“Come down to the street, Doctor Watson,” the voice said. “A car will be waiting for you. I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

Holding his now dead phone at arm’s length, John looked down to the street – just in time to see a sleek black car pull up in front of the building.

“Damn it!” he muttered, pocketing the phone. Then he grabbed his cane and limped down to the street.”

~TBC~


	15. A Mysterious Gentleman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part – and the next one – obviously contain a rewritten scene from “A Study in Pink” and uses some of the original dialogue. However, it was necessary to use some of the canon stuff, or else the part when we turn left from the known way wouldn’t have made any sense.

**A MYSTERIOUS GENTLEMAN**

A neat young man in a sharp three-piece suit got out of the car on the driver’s side and opened the rear door for him.

“Please, get into the car, Doctor Watson,” he said with a soft Welsh lilt in his pleasant voice. “You’re expected.”

After a moment of hesitation John climbed into the back seat – right next to a pretty brunette who studiously ignored him, her eyes fixed on her BlackBerry as she way typing away on it with an almost alarming speed. John valiantly tried to make polite small talk, introducing himself, but she gave him an obviously false name, smiling brightly at him for a moment before she returned to texting away on her phone.

“Any point in asking where I’m going?” John made a last effort.

She finally looked up from the phone. “None at all…” she smiled briefly again before returning to that blasted phone.... John.’

At that point John gave up and sat silently in the car, staring out of the side window.

Understandably enough, he was more than a little suspicious when the car pulled into an almost-empty warehouse – like in some cheap, second-grade American action film, really. The man, however, who was standing in the centre of the area, leaning nonchalantly on an old-fashioned umbrella and wearing a sharply tailored dark suit that probably had cost more than John’s entire wardrobe _and_ the rest of his possessions, couldn’t have been more English if he’d stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. Down to the double-breasted waistcoat and the vintage pocket watch, the golden chain of which was threaded through the buttonhole of aforementioned waistcoat.

_A blazing dandy, with too much money to his name and too much time at his hands_ , John was fuming silently as he climbed out of the car and limped towards the obvious mastermind behind his kidnapping, leaning heavily on his cane. _Dark suit for the dark warehouse – what a stupid cliché!_ The only thing missing was a pair of sunglasses and it could have been _Matrix – Reloaded_ all over again! It was overdramatic and ridiculous.

Suddenly John didn’t feel nervous anymore. He’d been a soldier, for God’s sake; he’d fought in Afghanistan, operated under heavy fire and survived. In fact, he still had a gun in his pocket, while the only weapon the sorry excuse of a criminal mastermind seemed to have was that hilarious umbrella. So, unless he had a blade hidden in its handle – and was _really_ quicksilver fast – John found he had nothing to fear.

“Have a seat, John,” Mr Tall, Overdressed and Mysterious said, gesturing with the point of said umbrella to a straight-backed, armless chair that was facing him.

John ignored the offer – as if he’d ever put himself in such a strategically disadvantageous position! – and continued limping towards him.

“You know, I’ve got a phone,” he said casually, taking a sharp look around him but if there were any snipers hiding in the warehouse, they were hiding well. “I mean, very clever and all that, but er... you could just phone me again. On my phone,” he added, in case the bloke was an idiot. “Like you did half an hour ago. We could have met in a café like two civilized people and discuss whatever you may want to discuss with me.”

“I do not frequent cafés,” the man replied with faint disdain in his soft, cultured voice. “Too many people, too much noise, too little privacy. When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet – hence this place.”

John shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he leaned on his cane more heavily. All the excitement of the day began to weigh down on him; all he wanted was to return to his bleak little place and sleep for the next three days or so. If he was _very_ lucky, the nightmares might even leave him alone for a change.

“The leg must be hurting you,” his kidnapper said; that pleasant voice became a little sterner. “Sit down.”

Anger flared in John. He was so fed up with people patronizing him, pitying him – looking at him and seeing _not_ Captain John Hamish Watson, the best damn surgeon that had ever served with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but just a crippled war veteran, all but broke, no family, no job, no purpose. He’d be damned if he let this overbearing ponce do the same!

“I don’t _want_ to sit down!” he snapped in his irate officer’s voice that used to make the lesser ranks quake in their boots. Sometimes even the higher ranks, in fact. The short temper of Three Continents Watson, whenever he was _not_ dealing with patients, was the stuff of legends among the fighting troops.

The man looked at him curiously… and a bit disappointed?

“You don’t seem very afraid,” he commented. Yep, definitely disappointment. Apparently, the bloke was used to people _being_ afraid of him.

John gave him a challenging look. “You don’t seem very frightening,” he replied.

That earned him an unexpected laugh from Mr Enigma.

“Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

“You tell me,” John replied flatly cause really, the bloke must have been fearless – or very stupid indeed – to say such things to _him_ of all people. He’d broken the nose of people for less provocation. “Look, can we stop talking in riddles and come to the point? This is getting tedious, and I’m tired. Just say what you want and be done with it. Preferably today.”

“Very well,” the pleasant smile – as hideously fake as Sherlock’s had been at Bart’s on the previous day – vanished, giving room to the sharp expression of an experienced interrogator. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

~TBC~


	16. Losing the Bet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part – and the next one – obviously contain a rewritten scene from “A Study in Pink” and uses some of the original dialogue. However, it was necessary to use some of the canon stuff, or else the part when we turn left from the known way wouldn’t have made any sense.

**LOSING THE BET**

So far, Mycroft had enjoyed his encounter with Dr. Watson. The man was not easily intimidated but, given his past, that wasn’t surprising. Nonetheless, the connection between bravery and stupidity was doubtlessly a close one. Even as a mere human, in his position Mycroft would have been a very dangerous enemy. Given who – and _what_ – he truly was, he could probably be counted as the most dangerous person on this planet.

Something that even Sherlock admitted, despite his blissful ignorance of their true identity.

It was time to raise the stakes.

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” he asked in a slightly menacing tone, and Dr. Watson stared back at him in confusion.

“I don’t have one. I barely know him. I met him...” he looked away as if surprised as that he hadn’t realised until now how little time had passed.... “yesterday.”

Mycroft raised a sardonic eyebrow.

“Mmm, and since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

He expected a flash of anger, protests that Watson wasn’t gay or the correction that he hadn’t actually moved in with Sherlock, not _yet_ anyway (although Mycroft was quite sure that he _would_ , and that shortly). Instead, the man simply stared at him in suspicion.

“Who are you?”

Now _that_ was a loaded question… with half a dozen possible answers, none of which the exiled Time Lord was willing to give at this time.

“An interested party,” he replied instead, which was the truth. Or rather one aspect of the truth.

John Watson, of course, couldn’t even fathom the many layers hidden behind that simple truth and so, being a straightforward man, he went straight for clarification.

“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

The man was definitely observant, even though he’d possibly come to the wrong conclusion. Mycroft, the Watcher, was not and had never been interested in the Doctor _that_ way. Only a few of his benighted companions ever had, and only in recent times.

“You’ve met him,” Mycroft replied to Dr Watson’s question. “How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has?”

Which, again, was very true. The Doctor had never been very good at making friends. Companions, some of which had worshipped the ground he walked on, yes. Allies who had found him useful – albeit annoying – like some UNIT brass, yes. But friends? Even back on Gallifrey, the people he used to be closest to had been the Rani and the Master, which told one more than enough about the quality of ‘friends’ he tended to make.

Well, there was Romana, of course, but there are exceptions from every rule. And even Romana had left him after a while, to seek out a higher purpose in E-space.

“I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having,” Mycroft added thoughtfully.

“And what’s that?” Dr Watson seemed quite unconvinced about that.

“An enemy,” Mycroft said simply, remembering the Doctor’s desperate efforts to save the Master, despite the fact that the latter had the Toclafane massacre half the planet the Doctor was usually so protective of. Yes, his fellow Time Lord was particularly taken by his own worst enemies.

“An enemy?” Dr Watson repeated, baffled… and who could blame him for that? Even after a millennium, Mycroft himself still found the Doctor’s – _Sherlock’s_ – reactions utterly confusing.

“In his mind, certainly,” he said. “If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

Dr Watson looked around the warehouse with a sarcastic grimace. “Well, thank God _you’re_ above all that.”

_Touché!_ Mycroft thought a little ruefully. The man was right: he _did_ love a good dramatic entrance. It was a Time Lord thing, really; they all were genetically inclined to pomp. Which clearly didn’t impress Dr Watson a bit, though, as he took out the phone of his pocket when a text alert sounded, checking out the incoming message.

“I hope I’m not distracting you,” Mycroft said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Unfortunately, that too, was totally lost on Dr. Watson.

“Not distracting me at all,” he replied casually, taking his sweet looking up from the phone before pocketing it. “It’s not so as if I’d have lots of important things to do.”

There was a bitter note in his voice; something that would explain why he’d consider moving in with Sherlock: the desperate need for a purpose.

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?” Mycroft already knew the answer, but sometimes one had to play out one’s hand according to the rules.

“I could be wrong,” Dr. Watson said slowly, “but I think that’s none of your business.”

“It could be,” Mycroft countered, a little ominously, but Dr. Watson didn’t back off an inch, his stance stiffening.

“It really couldn’t,” the tone was military-clipped.

Time to change tactics, Mycroft thought; besides, there was the matter of his bet with Ianto. A bet he didn’t intend to lose, for many different reasons, personal pride being just one of them – and not even the most important one. He took the notebook from his inside pocket, opened it and pretended to consult it as he spoke.

Of course, being made of psychic paper, it _would_ produce the expected notes, should anyone want to check. Useful little tool, psychic paper was.

“If you do move into, um... two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way,” Mycroft said, then he closed the notebook and put it away again, pretending that he hadn’t seen Dr Watson’s bewildered expression.

“Why?” Watson finally asked, his voice flat with mistrust.

Mycroft deliberately misunderstood the question. “Because you’re not a wealthy man.”

Annoyance flickered across the doctor’s open face. “In exchange for what?” he clarified.

“Information,” Mycroft replied bluntly. “Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?” Dr. Watson repeated, still in that flat voice.

“I worry about him. Constantly,” Mycroft confessed, knowing all too well how insincere that simple truth must have sounded under the circumstances. But that couldn’t be helped right now.

“That’s nice of you,” Dr. Watson’s voice was saccharine laced with poison; just like Mycroft’s own, in fact, which was vaguely disturbing.

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned,” Mycroft continued in his best persuasive manner. “We have what you might call a... difficult relationship.”

And wasn’t _that_ the truth! Before he could go on, though, Watson’s phone trilled another text alert. The doctor fished it out immediately again and looked at the message, while answering to Mycroft’s offer with a casual “No”.

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure,” Mycroft wasn’t about to give up his plan so easily.

Dr. Watson pocketed his phone again. “Don’t bother.”

“You’re very loyal, very quickly,” Mycroft laughed in disbelief. The thought that he might lose the bet to Ianto had never occurred to him – until this ever moment – and the possible ramifications made him uneasy beyond what he’d felt for a very long time.

“No, I’m not,” Dr. Watson replied, looking him straight in the eye, tipping his head back a little to be able to do so. “I’m just not interested.”

_Ah, all right, then_ , Mycroft thought. _Time to break out the big gun_.

~TBC~


	17. "Nor The Battle To The Strong"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last part of the rewritten Mycroft scene from “A Study in Pink”. Things will go a lot more AU after that.

**“NOR THE BATTLE TO THE STRONG”**

_I have seen something else under the sun: The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong, nor does food come to the wise or wealth to the brilliant or favours to the learned; but time and chance happen to them all. – Ecclesiastes 9:11_

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
John watched with a frown as the creepy bloke took out his notebook and opened it again, clearly reading a note from it.

“ _Trust issues_ , it says here,” he drawled, and for the first time since their encounter had begun, John felt panic rising inside him.

_Trust issues_ was something Ella nagged him all the time, accusing him of reading her notes upside down. Which he did, of course, every time. He needed to know what she had been writing about him. But how could this guy know about it? Why would he _want_ to know about it in the first place?

“What’s that?” John demanded, although he had the strong suspicion that it was a transcript of his therapy sessions.

The guy was still looking down at his notebook. “Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?”

“Who says I trust him?” John asked in honest surprise cause really, the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. He was fascinated by the enigmatic detective, but _that_ had nothing to do with trust. At all.

“You don’t seem the kind to make friends easily,” the guy elaborated, still consulting his notebook.

John, however, was fed up with the entire situation. He _did_ have friends, thank you very much. There was Mike Stamford, the rugby lads from Blackheath, his Army buddies, Bill Murray before all else… plenty of friends, actually. Granted, they had drifted apart due to his long service in Afghanistan, and then his hospitalization, but he could pick up where they had left it any time he wanted. Hadn’t it been Mike’s first reaction to help him find a flatmate as soon as they accidentally met in that park?

He _was_ good at making friends, and at keeping them, too. This man was an idiot.

“Are we done?” John asked in his flat Captain Watson voice.  
The man looked up from the notebook, straight into his eyes. “You tell me.”

They locked glares for a moment, and then John turned his back on the other man and started to walk away unhurriedly.

“I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him,” the man called after him, “but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen.”

John stopped dead on his track. His hand, which disabled him to work as a surgeon ever again, was a sore spot for him, and the fact that this complete stranger clearly knew about it, although he hadn’t even told Mike (or Harry, for that matter) made him furious. He whirled around, as quickly as his limp allowed, fighting the desire to introduce the guy’s smug face to said left hand. Preferably in the form of a closed fist.

“My _what_?” he asked through gritted teeth.

The man was leaning on his umbrella casually again, like somebody who was used to having his orders obeyed. Based on his obvious wealth and knowledge of things he shouldn’t have known, he probably was.

“Show me,” he said calmly.

Once again, John refused to be intimidated. He did raise his left hand, bending it at the elbow, but otherwise didn’t move an inch from where he was standing. If the bloke wanted to take a look at his hand, for whatever creepy reason, he’d have to come to _him_.

The message apparently got over, as creepy bloke strolled forward, hooking the handle of that blasted umbrella over his arm and reached for John’s hand. John instantly pulled the hand back a little.

“Don’t!” he warned. He hated if people pawed his _problem hand_ , as he’d come to call it. Even if they were doctors. They couldn’t heal it anyway.

The man lowered his head and raised his eyebrows at him. “What was that about trust issues again?”

John gritted his teeth but held out his hand flat with the palm down for the guy to examine it. Which the man did, taking it in both of his hands. His touch was cool and soft… surprisingly pleasant, actually.

“Remarkable,” he commented.

John snatched his hand away, his anger flaring again. “What?” he demanded.

The man didn’t answer directly. Instead, he turned and walked a few paces away.

“Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars,” he said softly, as if talking to himself. “When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, however, you see the battlefield,” he turned back, looking at John intently. “But you… you’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

“What’s wrong with my hand?” John demanded, despite the fact that he knew the answer already. Well, the medical explanation anyway.

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand,” came the answer, just as he’d expected. “Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service.”

John felt a muscle in his cheek twitch repeatedly. “Who the hell are you? How do you know that?”

Instead of a straightforward answer, the man gave him a conspiratory almost-smile.

“Fire her,” he suggested, and John couldn’t help but whole-heartedly agree with that suggestion, cause Ella was really useless. A complete waste of time and money… even if it was the Army’s money, not his own. And even if he really didn’t have anything better to do with his time.

Too much time and nothing to do with it. Now that was a problem he’d never accepted to have in his previously busy life.

“She’s got it the wrong way round,” the man continued. “You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady.”

John couldn’t help glancing down at his hand. To his amazement, the creepy guy was correct.

“You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson... you miss it,” the creepy guy leaned closer to him, right into his personal space, and John struggled _not_ to step back defensively. He really hated when people got into his face like this.

“Welcome back,” the man whispered, and then he turned around and walked away, just as John’s phone sounded another text alert. He casually twirled his umbrella as he did so, and John involuntarily had to think of old-fashioned villains twirling their moustaches.

“Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson,” he called back over his shoulder in a singsong voice.

John studied his left hand for a moment, smiled at the lack of any tremor, and then got out his phone and checked the new message. Just like the previous two, it was from Sherlock Holmes, urging him to come to 221B Baker Street. The last message read: _Could be dangerous. SH_

John allowed himself another wry smile. Perhaps the creepy bloke wasn’t such an idiot, after all.

Behind him, the car door opened and the pretty brunette with the obviously false name got out and tiptoed towards him in her high heels, her attention still riveted to the BlackBerry held in front of her in both hands. How she could walk on those heels without even looking was one of the great mysteries of womanhood that no man could hope to understand.

Unless she was some kind of robot, of course, which would have been a shame.

“I’m to take you home,” she told John. “Address?”

John hesitated for a moment. “Baker Street,” he said, making in a split second the decision that would change his life forever. “221B Baker Street.”

~TBC~


	18. Evaluations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s where AU country begins; it won’t always be a nice place. Canon has left the building and won’t be back for a while.

**EVALUATIONS**

Less than an hour later the car returned to Mycroft’s house on Pall Mall. He’d got home much earlier, of course. His time was too valuable to wait idly in an empty warehouse for the return of his PA. And besides, that was why he had more than just one car. His position made it possible, and considering how often he’d helped to save the country from various disasters in the recent decades, working silently in the background, he didn’t see why should he not use the benefits of the job as well.

“Doctor Watson asked to be taken to 221B Baker Street,” Anthea reported, showing him Sherlock’s messages that had been rerouted through her BlackBerry, like everything else coming from Sherlock’s phone. It was standard surveillance process.

Mycroft frowned. “That’s odd. I thought he’d want to collect his belongings from the bed-sit first. What little he owns could be packed into a single suitcase anyway.”

“The only thing he really needed he already had on him,” Ianto said. At Mycroft’s blank look, he added. “His Army pistol, sir. A Sig Sauer P226R, British Army equipment designation L106A1, issued to soldiers serving in Afghanistan. Surely you’ve spotted it, too. It was tucked into the back of the waistband of his jeans the whole time.”

Mycroft blinked. “Oh, yes, of course. I should have thought of that. Apparently, I was too concentrated on winning him over.”

“At which you obviously failed,” Ianto pointed out mercilessly. “Which means you owe me, since I won our bet. But sir, you should be more careful with Doctor Watson. He’s an excellent marksman, according to his service record; you shouldn’t trust that umbrella of yours so much. A sonic weapon is handy, but not always enough against a real, honest, down-to-Earth Army pistol. Especially concealed in such an impractical form. From close distance, you’d have been defenceless.”

“Next time I’ll think of keeping my distance,” Mycroft promised, knowing that Ianto was right. Even after half a century in human disguise, he sometimes underestimated how unpredictable humans could react to provocation. And he’d certainly done his best to provoke Dr. Watson repeatedly. In fact, the man had held his anger remarkably well under control.

“How well are you satisfied with the outcome of this meeting, sir?” Anthea asked. “It didn’t exactly turn out according to your plans.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Actually, I’m quite content. Certainly, having an insider to inform us on a regular basis would have been useful, but having somebody with so strong moral principles living with my ‘brother’ is a good thing, too. Some of his previous incarnations moved in the grey zone at times, and we can’t know yet how much of _that_ got absorbed into his human nature. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“I’m still collecting my debt, though, sir,” Ianto declared.

Mycroft gave him a disturbed look. “Are you sure about that, Ianto? What do you hope from torturing Mr Dekker? It won’t bring back Jack’s grandson, or Mr Frobisher’s family, or all the people who died with you in the Thames House… and neither will it make Jack return any earlier.”

“I know,” Ianto replied dispassionately,” but I need to know who was behind the whole conspiracy. Since Brian Green was clearly a coward and an idiot, _somebody_ must have pulled the strings in the background. A criminal mastermind _or_ an over-ambitious and completely ruthless politician… Whichever it was, I want them.”

The icy cold in his voice made even Mycroft shiver. “What do you hope from that?” he pressed.

“Justice for the dead,” Ianto said coldly. “Since I’m the only one of them who returned, it’s up to me to see that the ultimate cause behind those deaths won’t get away unpunished. And I expect the Doctor to help me, since he couldn’t be bothered to be here when the 456 came.”

“He couldn’t be here every time something went wrong,” Mycroft pointed out reasonably.

“Well, then he shouldn’t have destroyed the career of Prime Minister Harriet Jones when he _was_ here,” Ianto returned. “She, at least, had the courage to use Torchwood’s resources to defend this pathetic little planet. Without her reputation ruined, the Master would have had a much harder time to rise to power; and who knows, we might even be spared Brian Green’s idiocy.”

“You can’t know that,” Mycroft said.

“No,” Ianto agreed, “but it is a reasonable estimate, sir. In any case, I’m determined to find the person behind the whole 456 disaster, and Mr Dekker is the square to start from.”

“And when you find them?” Mycroft asked. “How are you going to bring proof? The entire 456 situation has been explained away as mass hallucination, an illusion created by a worldwide network gone mad and suicidal cults. How are you planning to get the person responsible for all this to court?”

“I’m not planning anything like that,” Ianto said darkly. “I’m going to deal with them the Torchwood way; by disposing of all potential dangers to Earth. Or are you telling me, sir, that somebody who was ready to sell our children to malevolent aliens and to have everyone murdered who could have prevented them from doing so isn’t a danger for Earth?”

Mycroft remained silent for a while because there was a great deal of truth in Ianto’s bitter words. Still, it saddened him to see such a young man so full of vengeful anger. But again, one couldn’t expect a mere human to die and then come back from the death unchanged. Some of the darkness lurking beyond the final threshold ought to leak through. He wondered what that would mean for Jack Harkness and his many hundreds of deaths.

Then another, even more disturbing thought occurred to him.

“Ianto, that human skull on Sherlock’s mantelpiece, the one he calls a friend of his… who was that?”

“Just as your ‘brother’ likes to say: a friend of his,” Ianto replied with a dark little smile. “The one he so badly wanted to save the last time they met that he forgot all about Jack dying for him on a daily basis. The one who’d refused to regenerate, out of sheer spite. I thought he’d like to spend the rest of his natural life with such a dear old mate.”

Despite everything he’d seen in his long life, Mycroft needed a few moments to overcome his shock. He’d never expected Ianto – polite, smooth-mannered, sharp-suited Ianto Jones who brewed the best coffee in three galaxies – to be so vicious. If _this_ was what death did to humans, then they really shouldn’t have more than just one life.

“You should be careful how much darkness you allow to enter your heart, Ianto,” he finally said. “It might take you over completely if you don’t look out.”

Ianto shrugged but didn’t answer. Seeing that arguments would be pointless at this time, Mycroft suppressed a sigh, dismissed him and turned his attention back to the affairs of state. He had a country to run, after all… figuratively speaking.

~TBC~

** Okay, before anybody would start yelling at me for not warning them about dark!Ianto, consider that such a warning would have made the whole chapter kind of pointless. **  



	19. Entanglements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re crossing over to Torchwood territory. This part contains hints at the 2nd season Torchwood episode “A Day in the Dead”.

**ENTANGLEMENTS**

When John reached 221B Baker Street – after a half-hearted 8and utterly failed) attempt to chat up the enigmatic not-Anthea – he expected to find Sherlock Holmes lying on the sofa of the living room, gazing vacantly at the ceiling while his brilliant brain was working. That was how he imagined brain work in Sherlock land.

Instead, he found the consulting detective sitting in his armchair, like every normal person (albeit with rolled-up shirtsleeves) and pouring tea for a visitor: a beautiful black woman of regal posture, wearing an elegant, charcoal-grey skirt suit with an aubergine blouse and surprisingly sensible flat shoes.

She was also clearly wearing a gun holster under her suit jacket, which made it clear that this was an official meeting, not a romantic one. Not that John could imagine Sherlock Holmes actually _dating_ , despite his exotic good looks. He wondered briefly who the lady might be. Police? Secret Service? A professional assassin? After his encounter with the mysterious gentleman in the warehouse, he could imagine just about everything.

Hearing his footsteps, Sherlock looked at him for a moment, giving him a tight smile.

“Oh, John, good. Do come in and have a seat. Oh, and meet Detective Swanson fro the Cardiff Police.

“Oh,” John echoed in surprise while shaking hands with the attractive lady officer. “So you found out who the last victim was, then? Nice to meet you, Detective Swanson. I’m John Watson.”

“ _Doctor_ John Watson,” Sherlock emphasized. “My flatmate and assistant in this case.”

He clearly didn’t doubt for a moment that John was ready and willing not only to move in with him but also to work with him on the case. And he was absolutely right in both points, John admitted ruefully. He wondered though if Sherlock worked with the Cardiff Police, too.

“You’ve found out who the pink lady was?” he repeated his question.

“Actually, Detective Swanson did,” Sherlock replied. “The Cardiff Police had her in the system cause she was involved in a hit-and-run car accident, back in 2006.”

“She and her newly wedded husband were on their way to the honeymoon when another car rammed them from the side,” Detective Swanson explained. “The husband died on the spot – he’d been the one driving – and Maggie, that was her name, Maggie Hopley, hit her head hard enough not to remember anything about the exact circumstances. She was on suicidal watch for a year afterwards, but in the end she seemed to get her act together again and start her life anew.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock waved impatiently. “What about the accident itself? Were there any witnesses?”

“Just one,” Detective Swanson leafed through the contents of her folder until she found the printed-out testimony. It was a very short one. “A young student from London, on a holiday trip in Cardiff with his school class. He said the car was hit by a black Audi, driven by a grey-haired, elderly man.”

John wasn’t the world’s only consulting detective but even he could hear the doubt in Swanson’s voice.

“You think he was lying?” he asked. Swanson shrugged.

“Lying or simply wrong. According to the paint particles found on the Hopley’s car where it had been hit, it must have been a black car indeed. But this particular sort of gloss paint is used for luxury BMWs, not for Audis. Usually. It’s always possible that some car nerd would use non-regular paint when prettying up his car, though, so we can’t be entirely sure about that.”

“So you never actually found the car?” Sherlock seemed extremely annoyed. John was half-expecting him to launch a spectacular rant about the incompetence of the police in general and Detective Swanson in particular but, to his surprise, it didn’t happen. Perhaps because Detective Swanson’s no-nonsense attitude made it clear that she wouldn’t take shit from anyone. After all, Sherlock had sought out _her_ help, not the other way round.

“Oh, we tried,” she said grimly. “And _how_ we tried. PC Davidson, who used to know Brian Hopley – the dead husband,” she added for them,” – systematically checked every car mechanic’s service in a radius of a hundred miles around the accident scene. He went and looked at every damaged car that could be considered personally. He checked all hospitals and private practices in the area, in case the driver of the other car was injured, too, and needed medical assistance. He spoke to the only witness repeatedly, in the hope to find out more details. He found _nothing_. Absolutely nothing.”

“That’s odd,” Sherlock murmured. “It was a simple accident, not a murder, wasn’t it?”

Swanson nodded. “According to forensics, yeah. A lot of similar accidents happen on that spot, actually. It’s a risky patch if someone ignores speed limits.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Sherlock said, his eyes gleaming with the excitement of a new puzzle. “And yet somebody has apparently gone great lengths to remove all possible evidence. Going so far as getting rid of the car involved – and that very thoroughly, it seems – and even buying a false witness.”

John and Detective Swanson exchanged surprised looks.

“Sorry, a false witness?” John asked with a frown. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Oh, do pay attention, John! This testimony,” he waved at them with the printout Swanson had showed him, “is a carefully constructed diversion. It contains some elements to match the actual car, like the colour and the size that would match the impact, but the rest of it is pure fantasy.”

“Meaning that we’re looking for a BMW that was driven by somebody who wasn’t greying at all?” John asked.

“Or if he was, he certainly coloured his hair afterwards,” Swanson added. “If the driver was a man in the first place, that is.”

“Oh, he almost certainly was,” Sherlock replied. “Somebody around forty or a bit older, returning from Cardiff to London after an alleged business trip with a woman most likely _not_ his wife, otherwise he’d simply have sent his lawyers to Ms Hopley and made a financial arrangement. He also must have been rich or influential enough – or both – to have the police investigation stopped… right?”

He looked askance at Swanson who nodded.

“Yeah. After a while Detective Inspector Henderson told us that a simple road accident, no matter how tragic, wasn’t important enough to be pursued any longer. Not while we had numerous unsolved murder cases on our desks.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock frowned. “Henderson has a good reputation on the Yard. Lestrade used to work with him on a few cases in the past. He must have got a phone call from higher above to leave the case alone.

Swanson nodded again. “Which is why I came myself to bring you the files. I was afraid they might get lost between Cardiff and New Scotland Yard, had I sent them through the official channels. I want this case solved, Mr Holmes. I don’t like rich people get away with manslaughter, just cos the can buy their way out. And I don’t want poor Maggie Hopley to have died for nothing. She was a nice girl; she deserved better.”

“People rarely get what they deserve,” Sherlock said dryly, “but in this case, I agree with you, Detective Swanson. This is an intriguing puzzle and I already know where we can start rolling the case up again.”

“And that would be?” Swanson asked with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock shrugged. “Why, with the false witness, obviously.”

~TBC~


	20. Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re crossing over to Torchwood territory. This part contains hints at the 2nd season Torchwood episode “A Day in the Dead”.

**CONNECTIONS**

“You really think he’d break _now_ , after all the years?” Swanson asked doubtfully. “He’d kept his mouth shut ever since. Why would he speak _now_?”

“Two reasons,” Sherlock actually counted hem down on his fingers. “One: whatever sum the driver might have paid the boy, he’s most likely spent it by now. Young people usually do when they unexpectedly come to big money.”

“True,” Swanson allowed. “What’s the other reason?”

“This time _I’m_ doing the investigation,” Sherlock replied arrogantly. “I can’t be called off the track by some bureaucrat. Let’s find the boy, and I assure you I’ll have the man behind him – _and_ the murderer of the pink lady – before the end of the week.”

“Er…Sherlock, I’d be careful making such a bold statement,” John finished reading the boy’s testimony, which seemed a bit… constructed indeed.

Sherlock shook him an annoyed look. “And why’s that?”

“Cause according to _this_ ,” John waved with the copy, “the name of the false witness was James Phillimore.”

“And?”

“And a James Phillimore of roughly the same age was the third victim of our serial killer,” John grabbed the latest issue of the _Daily Mail_ , listing the victims that could be identified so far, and handed it to Sherlock.

Surely enough, the name of James Phillimore was listed as third, after Sir Jeffrey Patterson, a well-known, middle-aged businessman of some renown, and somebody named Jennifer Wilson, but before Beth Davenport, local MP and Junior Minister of Transport. For obvious reasons, Maggie Hopley’s name wasn’t on the list yet.

For a moment Sherlock stared at the newspaper blankly – then his face lit up like the New Years’ firework.

“Oh, brilliant! That’s what we’ve been waiting for: the first connection between the victims! Now we know that the murderer wasn’t just killing these people randomly; he’s got criteria for his selection. We find the criteria, we solve the case.”

“You think there is a connection between all victims?” John asked.

It was Swanson who answered him. “There has to be: otherwise it would be too much of a coincidence.”

“The most obvious connection should be between Sir Jeffrey and Beth Davenport,” Sherlock added. “They’re both public figures, they ought to have run into each other in some way or another.”

“Yeah, but how are you gonna figure out _what_ that connection is?” John asked. "What I saw on the telly, Sir Jeffrey’s widow won’t talk to you about the secret connections of her husband. She keeps rhapsodising about him as if he’d been a saint or whatnot.”

“Fortunately, I’ve got my sources,” Sherlock smirked. “It pays off having an enemy in a high position.”

Swanson frowned at him, but it suddenly made _click_ in John’s head.

“Would that be the arch-enemy of yours I’ve just had the questionable pleasure to meet in an empty warehouse?” he asked.

Sherlock gave him an amused look. “Did he kidnap you?” John nodded. “Don’t take it personally; he does that to all my associates at least once. Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

John was taken aback by that question. “Actually… yes, he did.”

“Hmmm…” Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Did you take it?”

“No,” John replied briefly, genuinely insulted. What did this guy think about him?

“Pity,” Sherlock commented, completely blasé. “We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

“Charming,” John pulled a face. Apparently, sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes would also mean regularly socializing with megalomaniac madmen. “So, who the hell is he? A criminal mastermind of some sort?”

“Close enough; although not in the way the police would define a criminal,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. “Let’s just say that he’s the most dangerous man you’ve ever met; but he does have his use sometimes. Like now.”

He took out his phone and hit the key for speed-dial. His call was picked up immediately, and John was treated to one half of a highly interesting discussion.

“Mycroft? Yes, _of course_ it’s me, whom did you expect? I need some data you might be able to provide. Cause it’s important for a _case_ , that’s why! I need to know if there was any connection between two victims of the recent serial killer: Sir Jeffrey Patterson and Beth Davenport. Yes, I know you’re above legwork but that’s what you’ve minions for… like that female robot of yours, what’s her name today? Athena, or Anthea, or whatever. Well, let her do something for her exorbitant salary, will you? There’s finally movement in this case, and I don’t want it to lag again. Bye.”

He hung up and turned back to Swanson. “I expect we’ll get the data within the hour. Anthea is almost disturbingly efficient when she gets assigned to a task.”

“Does she really change her name regularly?” John asked, eager to learn more about the pretty brunette.

“All the time,” Sherlock replied. “Forget about her, though. She’s got the black belt in Baritsu and will break your arm if you bother her with your ridiculous romantic interest. Now, let’s learn more about the victims; perhaps we’ll find further connections.”

John felt more than a little insulted that Sherlock thought his interest for the enigmatic Anthea would be ridiculous. But when Sherlock was on first name basis with the creepy guy from the warehouse (which he apparently _was_ ), then he perhaps knew the man’s PA well enough, too.

So, instead of protesting, he sat down with Sherlock and the attractive detective lady, and they went through the victims’ files with the fine-toothed comb. Sherlock had… _borrowed_ the files from Detective Inspector Lestrade and now they were looking for other possible connections the police might have overlooked.

They weren’t even halfway through when Sherlock’s laptop made a _ping_ sound, announcing an incoming e-mail.

“Oh, good, Mycroft’s minions were busy,” Sherlock quickly scanned the attachments – all fourteen of them! – and then let out a triumphant howl. “Oh, yes! I _knew_ there had to be something! Look at this?”

The attachments – all sorts of financial documents and political statements – said precious little to John. Detective Swanson, however, nodded in grim satisfaction.

“Well, that answers _one_ of our questions. It seems that Sir Jeffrey was one of Beth Davenport’s main supporters when she ran for that seat in Parliament. It was mainly due to his money and influence that she became Junior Minister of Transport, too.”

“A position that enabled her to stop a police investigation with some carefully issued pressure, seeing that it was an accident anyway,” Sherlock added darkly.

“So, Sir Jeffrey was the one who hit the Hopleys’ car, killing the husband in the process? John asked, getting a hang on things.

Sherlock nodded. “Excellent, John. You’re showing some progress at last.”

John decided _not_ to hit him for that backhanded compliment.

“So we know what connected Sir Jeffrey to Beth Davenport _and_ to James Phillimore,” Detective Swanson summarized. “What about Victim Nr 1, though, this,” she checked the file, “this Jennifer Wilson?”

Sherlock gave her that pitying why-is-everyone-an-idiot look of his. “That would be quite obvious, wouldn’t it? She was the one sitting with Sir Jeffrey in the car.”

~TBC~


	21. More Entanglements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re crossing over to Torchwood territory. This part contains hints at the 2nd season Torchwood episode “A Day in the Dead”.

**PART 46 – MORE ENTANGLEMENTS**

John had to admit that – even without any hard proof – _that_ certainly sounded logical and wondered why no-one had come to that conclusion before. But again, he guessed, that was what made Sherlock extraordinary: that he noticed things nobody else would. A quick glance at Detective Swanson revealed her complete agreement – both about the statement and about Sherlock’s brilliance.

Good. It would make things easier if Sherlock didn’t alienate her.

“Jennifer Wilson was Sir Jeffrey’s affair then?” she clarified.

“Ex-affair, obviously, as he was already having another one with his current secretary recently,” Sherlock replied absent-mindedly. “The fact that he was _not_ heading home when he left his office on the day he was murdered, _plus_ the fact that his wife portrayed him as a saint in the media but fired the secretary before Sir Jeffery would even be buried clearly proves it, don’t you think? Now, we need to learn everything we can about this Jennifer Wilson. She was the first victim; that _must_ have some significance.”

“Perhaps she was just the easiest for the murderer to catch unaware,” Swanson suggested, but Sherlock shook his head.

“No, no, no; this is no ordinary serial killer. He’s absolutely brilliant; he plans his every move very carefully, and he never leaves any evidence behind. No, the fact that he killed Jennifer Wilson first _must_ mean something; if only I could figure out what!” he grabbed his head with both hands in frustration. “ _Think_!” he yelled at himself.

John and Detective Swanson exchanged amused glances, coming to a wordless understanding about the antics of their resident genius.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Swanson then asked.

Sherlock glared at her indignantly. “What?”

“Maggie Hopley,” Swanson said. “She was killed, too; and if we are considering the accident that killed her husband to be the connection between the victims, why was _she_ killed? She was a victim in that accident, too. All the others were guilty in some manner. Either by causing the accident or by covering it up. Not her, though. She was innocent; believe me, we checked it. So, if that’s the connection, why _was_ she killed?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to give a prompt answer… and found that he couldn’t. The question obviously hadn’t occurred to him just yet. Swanson nodded, having made his point.

“That’s what bothers me,” she elaborated. “If it weren’t for Maggie, the killings would appear as some kind of belated vengeance for the accident…”

“… and she _did_ scratch the word _Rache_ into the floorboard before she died,” John murmured. “Anderson said it’s German for _vengeance_.”

“Anderson’s an idiot!” Sherlock snapped.

“That may be so, but in this particular case he…?” she looked at John for confirmation. John nodded. “He’s right; _Rache_ does mean _vengeance_ in German. And Maggie’s husband did have German roots. The Hopleys were originally called Hoffner, which comes from _Hoffnung_ – the German word for _hope_ , or so Andy Davidson told me.”

“But if it _was_ a vengeance act, then Maggie should be the killer, not Victim Nr. 5,” John pointed out. “Unless the motivation behind _her_ killing was a different one… what?” he added, irritated, because Sherlock was staring at him with vacant eyes.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Brilliant, John, absolutely brilliant!”

John shook his head in confusion. “What are you talking about? Seriously, what?”

“Never mind,” Sherlock was back to full deduction mode again, talking a mile a minute. “Oh, this makes perfect sense, beautifully logical indeed! Let’s put the pieces in the right order, shall we? Chronologically, the first crime was the accident: Sir Jeffrey and his affair ignore the speed limits, hit the car of the Hopleys, Brian Hopley dies. Years later, Jennifer Wilson, the ultimate case of the accident – after all, Sir Jeffrey had been in that car because he’d met her behind the back of his wife – is murdered. Left in some abandoned building like a piece of rubbish. The next victim is Sir Jeffrey himself; same motivation, same method. Then comes James Phillimore, the false witness who delivered a testimony that ensured the police wouldn’t find Sir Jeffrey. And finally Beth Davenport who stopped the police investigation at Sir Jeffrey’s request. So far, so obvious.”

“Until Maggie Hopley gets killed,” Swanson added. “Somehow Maggie must be the key to all this. The killings started a couple of months ago – why now? The accident happened in 2006. Why did the killer wait several years?”

“And why the German word?” John asked. “Maggie’s _husband_ was the one with the German roots, not Maggie herself.”

“Cause it’s not Maggie this is all about,” Sherlock replied with the suddenly enlightened look of someone who’d just figured everything out. “It’s about her dead husband. _All_ victims committed a crime against _Brian_ Hopley.”

“Even Maggie?” Swanson frowned. Sherlock nodded enthusiastically.

“ _Especially_ Maggie, according to the twisted logic of our killer. The others were guilty in Brian’s death and the covering up of the crime. But Maggie… she besmirched his memory by daring to get her life together again and start anew. No wonder she was so very careful, concealing her dates as business trips to London. No wonder she never dared to enter any lasting relationship. She must have known her killer… and how he’d react if he found out about her affairs, short-lived though they might be.”

“She must have been deadly afraid of him, the poor woman,” John muttered angrily.

“And with a good reason as we can see,” Sherlock replied; then he turned to Swanson. “Do you know anything about Brian Hopley’s family?”

“There isn’t much to know,” Swanson shrugged. “His parents had moved to Canada a decade or so ago. He had an older brother, Jeff Hopley, who came to the funeral but never actually lived in Cardiff, and we lost track on him shortly thereafter as we didn’t have a reason to keep tab on him.”

“Perhaps Detective Inspector Lestrade can help finding out his whereabouts,” John suggested. “New Scotland Yard has its sources.”

“Fortunately, so do I,” Sherlock returned, “or else we’d have to wait for their negative results forever.”

“So what, are you going to call your arch-enemy again?” John asked sarcastically.

Of course, sarcasm had absolutely no effect on Sherlock Holmes.

“No need for that,” he declared, “since I’ve got _this_.”

And with that, he picked up a small pink suitcase from behind the sofa, put it onto the coffee table and unzipped it.

~TBC~


	22. The Pink Suitcase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter uses some of the dialogue of the unaired pilot again, out of necessity, which belong exclusively to Steven Moffat, may his muse never abandon him..

**THE PINK SUITCASE**

John rose from his chair, taking hold of his cane and leaned heavily on it, his eyes wide with shock.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asked, “The pink lady’s case? Maggie Hopley’s?”

Sherlock nodded. “Her suitcase, yes. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake,” he flipped the lid open. “Take a look at the impossible: the contents of her case.”

“How did you get this?” Swanson asked suspiciously.

“By looking,” was the short answer.

John rolled his eyes. “Looking _where_?”

Sherlock gave him a matching eyeroll of his own. “ _Think_ , John! What do we already know about the murderer?”

“Well,” John began uncertainly, “we know it’s a man.”

“Very good, John, I see there’s hope for you yet,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “We also know he drove Maggie to Lauriston Gardens….”

“… and forgot about her suitcase,” Swanson picked up the thought, clearly realising where Sherlock was going with it.

Unfortunately, John couldn’t say the same about himself. “So he forgot the case. What about it?”

“Really, John, and you were doing so well,” Sherlock snorted. “No man could be seen with this case without attracting attention to himself…”

“… so he had to get rid of it as soon as possible,” Swanson finished the thought again.

“Obviously,” Sherlock agreed. “Wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. The man’s not stupid.”

“No, he’s just an insane serial killer, so could you perhaps hold back with the admiration a bit?” Swanson commented dryly. “How did you find the suitcase again?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Quite simply. I checked every back street wide enough for a car within five minutes of Lauriston Gardens and looked for anywhere you could easily dispose of a bulky object without being observed.”

“Oh!” the memory of spotting Sherlock, standing atop of a tall building, dramatically backlit by the moon like some vampire prince suddenly resurfaced in John’s mind. “That’s why I saw you on the rooftop, right before that weird cabbie would pick me up!”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Took me less than an hour to find the right skip… Wait, what weird cabbie?” he then asked, snatching up the tail end of John’s question. John shrugged.

“Dunno. He seemed… weird, somehow. Like somebody who hadn’t slept for days. Or was high on drugs, whatever. I was relieved when I could get out of his cab, seriously,” he paused for a moment before giving Sherlock an awed look. “You got all that because you realised the case would be pink?”

Sherlock sat down opposite him, grinning in satisfaction. “Well, it _had_ to be pink, obviously. Everything _else_ on her was.”

John shook his head in amazement. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re stupid,” Sherlock replied; then he smiled briefly at John’s affronted look. “Oh no, don’t look like that. Practically everyone is.”

“Speak for yourself,” Swanson muttered. Sherlock ignored her.

“John, can I borrow your phone?”

“My phone?” John tried to keep up with Sherlock’s abrupt changes of topics – with limited success. With a resigned sigh, he dug his phone out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Sherlock; but Sherlock didn’t take it.

“I want you to send a text,” he said. There’s a number, over there on the table. It’s no use,” he murmured to himself, “there’s no other way. We’ll have to risk it.”

“Risk what?” Swanson asked sharply. “And why don’t you use your own phone?”

“Always a chance the number will be recognised,” Sherlock replied. “It’s on the website. Now, John.”

“Whom am I texting?” John asked suspiciously. Sherlock waved him off.

“Never mind. On the table, the number, now, please.”

John shook his head in mild exasperation but picked up the small address label – presumably the one from the pink suitcase, as it was eye-wateringly pink, too – and started to type the number into his phone.

“Maybe Sergeant Donovan was right about you,” he commented while typing.

Sherlock gave him a brief glance. “What did she say?”

“Said you were a psychopath,” John replied.

“Oh!” Sherlock was clearly amused. “Didn’t think she was that smart. She needs to do some more research, though. There’s a marked difference between a psychopath and a high-functioning sociopath.”

“She said one day they’re gonna show up at the murder scene and you’ll have provided the body,” John continued, studiously ignoring Detective Swanson’s alarmed look. In exchange, his comment got completely ignored by Sherlock.

“These words exactly,” the world’s only consulting detective said. “What happened at Lauritson Gardens? I must have blacked out.”

John stared at him blankly. “You blacked out?”

“Would you stop asking stupid questions?” Sherlock huffed, then continued his narration. “Twenty-two Northumberland Terrace. Please come. Do you have it? Good. Then send it.”

John did as he was told, then looked up at Sherlock. “Sent. What was that about?”

Sherlock smiled briefly and slid the address label back into the luggage tag.

“You’ll see soon enough. Now we’ll take a look at the contents of the case. Detective Swanson, if you’ll do the honours…?”

“What are we looking for?” Swanson asked, rummaging through the late Maggie Hopley’s personal things… which obviously had already been searched. Sherlock clearly didn’t feel the least qualm about going through a lady’s unmentionables.

“The impossible,” Sherlock replied. “The _one_ impossible thing. “What do you see?”

“Not much,” Swanson laid back the contents of the case, automatically folding everything neatly. “There’s a change of clothes, a make-up bag, a washbag and a novel. What’s so impossible?”

“Her mobile phone,” Sherlock said promptly.

“There _isn’t_ a mobile phone,” Swanson pointed out.

Sherlock slammed his hands onto the arms of the chair and pulled his feet up under him so that he was perched on the seat like a cat. Or like some great, bizarre-looking vulture.

“That’s what’s impossible,” he elaborated. “No mobile in her case, no mobile in her coat pocket.”

“Well, maybe she didn’t _have_ one,” John suggested.

“She had a string of lovers,” Sherlock reminded him. “Of course she had one.”

“She did,” Swanson said in agreement. “The number even is in her file.”

“She could have left it at home,” John said with a shrug.

“Again, string of lovers,” Sherlock argued. “She would never leave her phone at home.”

“Especially if she knew her killer and was afraid of him,” Swanson added.

“And so where is it?” John asked, a little impatiently-

Sherlock gave him a tight smile. “You know where it is. More importantly, you know _who_ has it.”

John thought for a moment… and then understanding dawned on him. “The murderer?”

Sherlock smiled again. “The murderer, yes.” He stood up on the chair, stepped off and onto the floor nonchalantly.

John stared at him in shock before rummaging frantically in his jacket pocket for his phone. “Who did I just text?”

“Maybe she just dropped it in the back of his car,” Sherlock said softly. “Maybe she planted it on purpose to lead us to him, but the murderer has her phone.”

As if on cue, John’s phone began to ring. He looks at the screen, which read:  
*077900955* mobile

He handed the phone to Swanson who checked the number with Maggie Hopley’s file.

“Yes,” she said grimly. “This _is_ her number.”

~TBC~


	23. The Hunt Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter uses some of the dialogue of the unaired pilot again, out of necessity, which belong exclusively to Steven Moffat, may his muse never abandon him..

**THE HUNT BEGINS**

For a moment they all stared intently at the phone as it continued to ring.

“A few hours since his last victim,” Sherlock went on softly. “Now he’s received a text which can only be from her. An innocent man would ignore a text like that; assume it was a mistake. A guilty man...”

In that moment the phone stopped ringing and the screen went blank.

“... would panic,” Swanson finished.

Sherlock grinned at her like a loon. “Exactly,” he picked up his jacket and put it on. “Let’s go!”

“Aren’t you gonna inform the police?” Swanson asked in a disapproving tone.

“Five people are dead,” Sherlock replied. “There isn’t time to talk to the police.”

“Then why are you talking to _me_?” Swanson countered.

“You’re already here,” Sherlock pointed out, “and, unlike the majority of the Met, you aren’t an idiot. Besides, you’ve brought me the data I needed to solve this case.”

“Is the case solved, then?” Swanson asked doubtfully.

“Basically, yes,” Sherlock replied. “All we need is to catch the killer.”

“We still have no idea who he actually is,” Swanson reminded him.

Sherlock waved off her concern. “A mere technicality. Once we’ve caught him, we’ll know who he is,” he looked at John expectantly. “Well?”

“Well what?” John asked.

“Well, you could sit there and watch telly…” Sherlock began. John laughed and sat back in his chair, which clearly irritated Sherlock. “Problem?”

“Sergeant Donovan,” John was still grinning.

“What about her?” Sherlock demanded.

“Said you get off on this,” John explained. “Said you enjoy it. I’m beginning to see that she was right.”

Sherlock put on his greatcoat and looped the long blue scarf around his neck.

“And I said _danger_ , and here you are,” he gave John another one of those tight smiles and walked out of the door, without as much as a backward glance.

John gritted his teeth; then he leaned onto his cane angrily to push himself to his feet and head for the door. “Damn it!” he muttered under his breath.

Swanson rose from the chair to join him. “Are you really going with him to catch a murderer?”

“I can’t leave him go alone, now can I?” John sighed.

“You’re not his nursemaid, are you?” Swanson countered.

“No; but I won’t be able to afford the flat alone if the idiot gets himself killed,” John replied dryly and hobbled towards the door. “Aren’t you coming with us? At least you’re a copper yourself.”

“A copper of the _Cardiff_ Police,” Swanson clarified. “I’d get all kinds of anger if I meddled with a case of the Met; especially with such a major one. I can’t afford that. I’m a single mum with a small kid at home.”

“Who’s with your kid now?” John asked as they continued down the stairs.

“My flatmate,” Swanson smiled at him. “You’re not the only one who needs help with the rent, Doctor Watson. Eiry is my secretary at the police and a good friend; and my daughter adores her. That’s how I could afford to come to London in the first place.”

“You’re going right back to Cardiff, then?” John asked, a little disappointed. He found the detective lady smart and attractive and would have liked to know her better.

Swanson shook her head. “No, I’ll stay for another day at least. I’d like to know how this case ends,” she took a business card out of her handbag and handed it to John. “Call me when you’ve found the killer?”

John accepted the simple white card that only contained her name – Detective Kathy Swanson – and a mobile number.

“Of course,” he smiled, pleased by the perspective of seeing her again. “Assuming you’ll go for a coffee with me.”

“Accepted,” Swanson closed her bag and gave him a gentle push. “Go on now before the mad genius storms off without you.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
John caught up to Sherlock at the front door and followed him out into the street. Sherlock held up the door for him in an unexpected bout of thoughtfulness and pulled it closed behind them as they headed off down the road.

“Detective Swanson isn’t coming then?” he asked.

John shook his head. “She doesn’t want any problems with the Met.”

“A wise decision,” Sherlock commented as they strolled along Baker Street. “Chief Superintendent Pitts is an idiot. More so than his minions, even, and _that_ is saying a lot.”

“Where are we going anyway?” John asked, unable to make a comment as he didn’t know the chief of the Met.

“Northumberland Terrace is a five-minute walk from here,” Sherlock explained. “I know just the place from where we can watch Nr 22 without drawing attention.”

“What?” John asked in surprise.” You seriously think the killer’s stupid enough to go there?”

“No,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully. “No, I think he’s brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones – so desperate to get caught.”

“Sorry, what?” John felt a bit baffled again. “Why would they want that?”

“Appreciation,” Sherlock explained. “At long last the spotlight. To you it’s an arrest; to them it’s a coming-out party. That’s the frailty of genius: it needs an audience.”

“Yeah,” John gave him a pointed look, of which Sherlock remained completely oblivious. “Yes. I suppose it does.”

Sherlock nodded absently, clearly not recognising the irony of the situation. By the time Kathy Swanson reached the front door of 221B, they had already turned around the corner and were gone. Swanson sighed, fished out her phone and called her secretary.

“Eiry? Yeah, it’s me. I think I’ll have to stay in London for at least another day. Would it be a problem? No? Thank you, you’re a jewel. Give my little princess a kiss from me and tell her I’ll bring her something from London. Yes; I’ll be back by the time Henderson returns from his holiday. Thanks again, Eiry. Bye!”

~TBC~


	24. Everything Else is Transport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use the pilot version of Angelo’s – the warm, old-fashioned, cosy brown-and-gold one – as well as the pilot version of Angelo himself, simply because I like both better than in the final version. Since this is an AU anyway, I took the poetic licence.

**EVERYTHING ELSE IS TRANSPORT**

The place was interesting, to say the least. Rather old-fashioned, too, with the huge, ochre-framed windows that went all the way to the floor, consisting of eighteen small, quadratic glass planes set in an olive green grid. The doorframe was olive green, too, and so was the menu card placed between the two windows, as log as they were tall. John briefly wondered if it was a lot of bother to change the card – and if yet, who was the unlucky wretch to do it – or the menu remained the same all the time. The card certainly looked old enough.

Sherlock swept in before him and John followed obediently. The inside of _Angelo’s_ was every bit as warm and cosy as it appeared from the outside: with small, round tables and wide-backed, comfortable chairs, nicely carved of dark, polished wood, glassed wooden cabinets between the windows, displaying the wine selection, and an aged mantelpiece with a globe and some kind of bust on it.

Sherlock led him directly into the corner next to the window, where there still was a table for two free. It also offered an excellent view at Northumberland Terrace, which was probably the reason for his choice. John didn’t really care. He was hungry, and the smells coming from the kitchen area spoke of a place where excellent food was served.

The restaurant was almost full, couples sitting at nearly every other table, with red candles burning between them, stuck on empty wine bottles. The polished bronze candelabra hanging overhead provided a muted, yellow light that added to the cosy atmosphere. John imagined coming here with a date later… when he’d be able to afford it. To be honest, he had his doubts about the current evening, too.

“Twenty-two Northumberland Terrace,” Sherlock said crisply, not noticing (or not caring for) John’s mild anxiety. “Keep your eyes at it.”

“I thought _you’d_ be keeping your eyes at it,” John said, just a tad annoyed, and hung his cane on the back of his chair.

“I am,” Sherlock replied, staring over John’s shoulder.

John followed his look doubtfully and saw a mirror hanging on the wall behind him, allowing Sherlock to see the road behind him out of the window.

“He isn’t just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, of course not. But he _will_ pass by; might even loiter.”

“Half of London is passing by,” John pointed out logically.

“I’ll recognise him,” Sherlock murmured in an almost dreamy manner.

“Do you know who he is?” John asked, a bit shocked.

Sherlock smiled. “I know _what_ he is.”

At this moment the manager – or owner – of the restaurant, a big, balding man with a thin moustache, small, very dark eyes and a white cloth bound before him apron-like, came over, clearly pleased to see Sherlock.

“Sherlock!” he exclaimed in a heavy Italian accent, clapping him on the shoulder and laying a couple of menus on the table.

“Angelo,” Sherlock replied, enduring the demonstration of the other man’s fondness with some effort.

“Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free,” the man announced, laying the table. He put a finger to his lips secretively. “On the house, for you and for your date.”

John flinched by the assumption that he’d be Sherlock’s date. Sherlock himself, however, seemed completely unfazed by it. “Do you want to eat?” he asked.

“I’m not his date,” John told Angelo… and was ignored.

“Anything you choose, I’ll cook it for you myself,” Angelo promised, which was probably the highest regard he could show for any customer.

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you, Angelo.”

“Ohhh! Ooh, this man!” Angelo wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s, hugging both his shoulders, much to John’s secret amusement. In his opinion Sherlock deserved to be embarrassed from time to time, too, the great git.

Angelo then looked around to make sure nobody could hear before looking at John. “This man got me off a murder charge,” he added.

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock explained with a somewhat… _pained_ expression. “Three years ago I successfully proved to Inspector Lestrade that at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder Angelo was in a completely different part of town, car-jacking.”

“He cleared my name,” Angelo beamed at John.

“I cleared it a bit,” Sherlock corrected with a grimace. “Anything happening opposite?”

Angelo shook his head. “Nothing,” he beamed at John again. “But for this man, I’d have gone to prison.”

“You _did_ go to prison,” Sherlock reminded him dryly.

For a moment, Angelo seemed at a loss of words, then he winked at John. “I’ll get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic, huh?”

“I’m not his date!” John spluttered indignantly as Angelo walked put two menus down on the table, smiling widely before walking away.

Sherlock set menu down onto the table. “You may as well eat. We might have a long wait.”

John looked up from the menu he was studying. “You don’t eat anything?”

“Why, what day is it?” Sherlock asked back.

John gave him a bewildered look. “It’s Wednesday.”

“Then I’m okay for a bit,” Sherlock said as if it had been the most logical answer possible. Perhaps for him it was, but John was shocked.

“You haven’t eaten all day? For God’s sake, you need to eat!”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently “ _You_ need to eat. _I_ need to _think._ The brain is what counts; everything else is just transport.”

John looked up at him again doubtfully. “You might consider refuelling it…” after a short pause, he added, in an awkward effort to make small talk. “So, you have a girlfriend who feeds you up sometimes?”

“Is _that_ what girlfriends do?” Sherlock asked in obvious amusement. “Feed you up?”

“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?” John clarified.

Sherlock was looking out of the window again. “Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”

A moment passed before John realised the possible significance of this statement. “Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend?” Sherlock looked round at him sharply. “Which is fine, by the way,” John added in a hurry. He most certainly _wasn’t_ homophobic, on the contrary. He’d accepted Harry’s orientation from the beginning, unlike their parents.

“I _know_ it’s fine,” Sherlock replied, his annoyance with the entire topic apparent. Or could there be another reason?

John smiled to indicate that he wasn’t signifying anything negative by what he said. “So you’ve got a boyfriend then?”

“No,” Sherlock said blandly.

John was still smiling, but his smile had become a little strained. It wasn’t easy to keep up a casual conversation with the man, so much was certain. “Right. Okay. You’re unattached. Like me.” He was rapidly running out of things to say. “Fine.” He cleared his throat. “Good.”

For a moment, Sherlock appeared genuinely taken aback. “John, um...” he began somewhat awkwardly, “I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any...”

“No,” John interrupted, turning his head briefly to the side and cleared his throat, trying desperately _not_ to laugh at Sherlock’s badly-veiled panic. “No, I’m not asking you out. No. I’m just saying, it’s all fine. Whatever… er… shakes your boat,” he didn’t dare to look at the other man, “it’s fine with me.”

“Good,” Sherlock stared out of the window, watching a cab pass by.

John hid behind his menu in a desperate effort to remain calm. “So, you don’t… er… _do_ anything?”

Sherlock turned to him, glaring at him intently. “Everything. Else. Is. Transport.” He replied, emphasizing each word.

The effort of his glare was ruined completely when Angelo came back with an empty wine bottle and a red candle stuck upon it. He put it onto the table, lit the candle and gave John a thumbs-up before turning and walking away again.

~TBC~


	25. The Invisible Car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter uses some of the dialogue of the unaired pilot again, out of necessity, which belong exclusively to Steven Moffat, may his muse never abandon him. IMO, Sherlock's analysis of a London cab being the logical murder weapon was fantastic, and it's a shame that it couldn't be transferred to the final version.

**THE INVISIBLE CAR**

Twenty minutes later, John had a plate of excellent food in front of him and was eating from it with great relish – and honestly, who could blame him? It didn’t happen often that he’d get delicious Italian dishes and good wine for free. Sherlock’s attention was fixed out of the window and he was not-so-quietly drumming his fingers on the table.

“So, no sign of him yet?” John asked, determined _not_ to let his eccentric flatmate ruin his late lunch.

Sherlock shook his head. “I suppose it’s a long shot. We’ll have to be patient.”

John shrugged. He could do patient. There was something that had been nagging on his mind, though. “You said before you don’t know who the killer was,” he said,” but you knew _what_ he was.”

“So would you if you’d think about him,” Sherlock snapped. “Why won’t people just _think_?”

“Oh, probably because we’re stupid,” John put a forkful of pasta into his mouth and chewed in delight. Sherlock bit his lower lip in annoyance.

“We know the killer drove his victims, but there have been no marks of coercion or violence on the bodies,” he began in his deductive voice, speeding up as he went on. “Each one of those five people climbed into a stranger’s car voluntarily. The killer was someone they trusted.”

John looked up from his plate. “But not someone they knew?”

Sherlock leaned forward to give his words even more emphasis. “Five entirely different people with no friends in common. Yes, we _did_ find a connection between them, but that was a temporary one; there’s no sing of any of them having kept it alive after it served its purpose.”

John nodded because that was certainly true.

“And another thing,” Sherlock continued. “Lauritson Gardens… did you see it? Twitching curtains, little old ladies… Little old ladies, they’re my favourite. Better than any security cameras. But, according to the police, no one remembers a strange car parked outside and empty house; not one person remembered!”

John frowned and looked at the ceiling, thinking. “I see what you’re saying…” he paused, his frown deepening. “No, actually, I don’t. Are you saying the killer’s got an invisible car?”

Sherlock clapped his hands, excited. “Yes, exactly!”

John shook his head. “Okay, I definitely _don’t_ see what you’re saying.”

“ _Think_ , John!” Sherlock insisted, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “There are cars that pass like ghosts, unseen, unremembered. There are people we trust, always, when we’re alone, when we’re lost, when we’re drunk. We never see their faces, but every day, we disappear into their cars and let the trap close around us.”

He turned on his chair and called out. “A glass of white wine, Angelo, quickly!” Then he turned back to John again, gesturing at the black cab that had just slowed down in front of the house they’d been watching, its light on to indicate that it was available for hire.. “I give you the perfect murder weapon of the modern age: the invisible car – the London cab.”

John shook his head, not quite buying the detective’s theory.

“There have been cabs up and down this street all night,” he pointed out. But Sherlock was too far gone with his idea to listen.

“This one _stopped_!” he hissed, causing John to roll his eyes.

“He’s looking for a fare!” the doctor replied in exasperation, and they both watched a woman get out of the cab, pay the fee and leave.

Their argument was interrupted by Angelo, bringing the requested wine. Sherlock grinned diabolically. John shook his head again.

“We don’t know it’s him,” he emphasized, but he was clearly talking to deaf ears.

“We don’t know it isn’t,” Sherlock turned to Angelo, taking the wine glass from the tablet. “Thank you,” he said; with a sudden move, he splashed the wine into his own face, then dabbed it with a folded napkin and reaching for his coat.

“Watch,” he ordered, looking at John intently. “Don’t interfere,” then, to Angelo, he added. “Angelo, Headless Nun.”

Angelo nodded, obviously getting the hint while John just gaped at them. “Now, _that_ was a case,” he declared in delight and began to roll up his shirtsleeves. “Same again?”

“If you don’t mind,” Sherlock put on his coat, just in time for Angelo to grab him, drag him to the door and throw him out of the bar.

“Out with you! Cretino!” Angelo shouted. “You’re drunk! And stay away!”

Sherlock stumbled over the threshold spectacularly while Angelo continued insulting him in Italian, spun around on the street and performed a very convincing drunk ballet among wildly honking cars more or less straightly towards the suspicious cab.

“What’s he doing?” John asked, baffled.

“Sherlock’s on a case,” Angelo announced with almost paternal pride; then he nodded sagely and smiled. “Bad news for bad people.”

John wasn't so sure about that. He watched with increasing anxiety as Sherlock somehow engaged the cabbie in a conversation… well, a drunken argument would have been a better word for it. He played the drunken man very well, and in the end, he ended up in the cab, with the help of the driver, as if it had most likely been his intention.

John, however, didn’t like the sight of his flatmate being manhandled onto the back seat of the cab like a sack of potatoes.

“Something’s gone wrong,” he said, worriedly.

“No. Nonono,” Angelo shook his head. “All part of the plan. Sherlock _always_ has a plan.

John’s eyes narrowed as he watched the cab leaving.

“Yes, and it’s gone wrong,” he replied with a certainty that he couldn’t quite explain, not even himself.

He jumped to his feet and ran out of _Angelo’s_ , to follow the cab as long as he could still see it.

The cane hung on the back of his seat, forgotten.

~TBC~


	26. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where we go to AU country again. However, there are a few lines of dialogue borrowed from the unaired pilot, which belong exclusively to Steven Moffat, may his muse never abandon him.
> 
> **For visuals:** my Jeff Hopley isn’t the same person as the serial cabbie in canon. He’s the cab driver who drove John home from the crime scene in the unaired pilot.

**REVELATIONS**

Sherlock began to regain consciousness… embarrassingly slowly, truth be told. He opened his eyes with considerable effort but his vision wouldn’t come into focus right away. All he can see were some fuzzy shapes dancing in a drunken circle around him. At least he could determine that he was indoors somewhere, rather than on the street in front of _Angelo’s_ , and slumped in a chair.

The chair felt familiar, so he blinked, trying to focus and could eventually make out a mantelpiece with a human skull resting on it, next to a pile of unopened letters pinned there with a Jack-knife, and a fire burning in the grate underneath. That, too, appeared familiar somehow.

“I hope you don’t mind,” a voice said above him. “You gave me your address, after all.”

Sherlock blinked again and looked up into the strangely colourless face of a relatively young man – about his own age – with curly, straw-blond hair and watery eyes. It was a ruggedly handsome face – or would have been, if not for the deep creases of bitterness between the thick brows and around the corners of the pale, thin-lipped mouth.

Sherlock recognised the man, of course. It was the cabbie who had the pink lady’s phone. And he already knew _who_ the man was.

“Jeff Hopley, I presume,” he mumbled, his tongue barely obeying.

The cabbie gave him an approving look. “Very good, Mr. Holmes; and that in your current state! Tell me, do you do a lot of drugs?”

“Not a while,” Sherlock mumbled. The cabbie shrugged.

“I ask cause you’re very resilient. You’ve only been out for about ten minutes. Most people would take an hour to wake up, at the very least.”

Sherlock snorted. Comparing him with _most people_ was a mistake, and this guy would realise that soon enough. He struggled to his feet but, to his unpleasant surprise, couldn’t keep his balance. He fell forward, grabbing hold of the mantelpiece and grunting as he tried to pull himself upright.

“You’re strong,” there was something akin respect in the cabbie’s snake-like eyes. “I’m impressed. Not that it would do you any good, mind you, but I have to give you points for trying.”

Sherlock managed to haul himself up so that his legs were almost straight and rested his head on his hands, looking blearily at the skull that seemed to glare back him from close up. His dear, old friend… unfortunately one that couldn’t help him right now.

“This is my flat,” he said weakly.

“Of course it is, yeah,” the cabbie agreed amiably. “Found your keys in your jacket,” he took them out of his trouser pocked and placed them well outside Sherlock’s reach. “I thought, well, why not? People like to die at home. Feel free to warm yourself up. I made everything nice and cosy for you.”

Naturally, Sherlock wasn’t about to meekly roll over to die for a serial killer, no matter how brilliant one. He was used to come out of such situations as the winner. With a valiant effort, he turned around and tried to stand up straight – only to lose his balance and crash to the floor, face down.

The cabbie walked closer to him, looking down at him with a strange mix of curiosity and hunger.

“Now, now,” he tutted, almost gently. “The drug’s still in your system; you may be more resilient than most, but even you’ll be weak as a kitten for at least an hour,” he smiled down at Sherlock darkly. “I could do anything I wanted to you right now, Mr. Holmes. Anything at all.”

He paused, watching with interest as Sherlock struggled to stand up but only managed to get up onto his knees and elbows, whimpering with the effort. It was utterly humiliating, and Sherlock began to worry.

“Fortunately for you, I’m a good Christian who won’t give in to such base desires,” the cabbie – Jeff Hopley, obviously – continued conversationally. “So don’t worry; I’m only gonna kill you. But first we’ll have a little chat, you and I.”

Bending down, he grabbed Sherlock around the waist, hauled him to his feet like a rag doll and dragged him to his armchair, dumping him onto it. Sherlock slumped forward onto the coffee table before gathering his strength enough to sit more or less upright, turning towards the door behind him. It was well out of his reach, of course.

The cabbie walked around the coffee table and took the other armchair – the one John had been sitting in just an hour or two earlier.

“The whole house is empty,” he told Sherlock in the same conversational tone. “Even your landlady’s away, so there’s no point in raising your voice. It’s just you and me. So let’s talk a bit, shall we?”

“Talk about… what?” Sherlock tried to focus but it wasn’t easy.

“I know who you are, Mr. Holmes,” the cabbie looked at him as if he were some rare and interesting species of insect. “I googled you as soon as the police called you into the game. Found your website – interesting stuff you have got there.”

Sherlock lifted his head to look at him. “I’m flattered.”

“No need for that,” the cabbie said. “You _are_ brilliant; a proper genius. _The Science of Deduction_ – now _that_ is proper thinking. So I knew if anyone could stop me before I finished my mission, it would be you,” his voice gained an almost apologetic undertone. “It’s nothing personal, you see. I’ve nothing against you – on the contrary. I’m a great fan of your work… your _thinking_. But when you contacted that Swanson woman I knew that you’d get too close, too soon. So I _had_ to take you out; cause I’ve got one more piece of unfinished business, back in Cardiff.”

“You… watched my house?” Sherlock’s head slumped down onto his hand again.

“Oh, no,” the cabbie laughed, just a tiny bit manically. “I didn’t have to. Somebody else did it for me; somebody who’s been an even greater fan of yours than I am and for a much longer time. He was happy to help me out a little cause he wanted to see which one of us will come out of the game alive. You see, he’s a fan of _mine_ , too. He likes the rules of my game, Mr. Moriarty does.”

“What game?” Sherlock slurred without looking up. His head was still so heavy as if full of lead.

“ _This_ game,” the cabbie reached into both of his trouser pockets and took out a small brown bottle from each of them. “The guessing game.”

He put the identical bottles onto the coffee table, while Sherlock watched him blankly, unscrewed the lid of one bottle and tipped a small capsule out of it. Then he took an identical-looking capsule from the other bottle and placed both capsules onto the table between them.

“You wanted to know how I made them take the poison,” he smiled grimly. “You’re gonna love this!”

“How…” Sherlock sighed tiredly. The cabbie clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

“Take a moment. Get yourself together. I want your best game.”

“My… my best _what_?” Sherlock asked in confusion. Then he leaned back in his armchair, breathing through deeply, trying to concentrate. He pointed to the capsules on the table. “Two pills…”

The cabbie nodded. “There’s a good pill and a bad pill. You take the good pill, you live; take the bad pill, you die.”

“And you know which is which,” Sherlock said. It wasn’t a question. The cabbie snorted.

“Of course I know; it’s _my_ game, after all.”

“But I don’t,” Sherlock’s brain was still working sluggishly.

The cabbie rolled his eyes. “Wouldn’t be much of a game if you knew. You’re the one who chooses.”

“It’s not a game,” Sherlock said crossly. “It’s chance.”

The cabbie smiled in a disturbingly satisfied manner. “I’ve played five times. I’m alive. It’s not chance, Mr. Holmes, it’s chess. It’s a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this ... this is the move.”

With his right hand, he slid one of the capsules toward Sherlock. Then he pulled his hand back, leaving the capsule halfway between the two of them.

“Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? You can choose either one.”

~TBC~


	27. Endgame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where we go to AU country again. However, there are a few lines of dialogue borrowed from the unaired pilot, which belong exclusively to Steven Moffat, may his muse never abandon him.

**ENDGAME**

Sherlock looked at Jeff Hopley for a long moment.

“That’s what you did, to all of them, wasn’t it?” he asked. “You gave them a choice.”

The cabbie nodded. “You’ve gotta admit, it was more than what they deserved. They didn’t give my brother a choice. They killed him; and then covered up the crime.”

“Maggie didn’t,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Maggie was the worst of all!” the cabbie’s face contorted in hatred. “She was Brian’s _wife_ , but she just _had_ to come up to London all the time, whoring herself out.”

“Your brother has been dead for _years_ ,” Sherlock pointed out. “Maggie was _alive_.”

The cabbie shrugged, his pale eyes glittering with cold madness. “And now she isn’t. Anyway, time’s up, Mr. Holmes. Choose.”

“And then what?” Sherlock asked. The cabbie smiled in the same disturbing manner.

“And then, together, we take our medicine,” licked his lips in anticipation. “Let’s play.”

Sherlock leaned forward a little. “Play _what_? It’s a fifty-fifty chance.”

The cabbie shook his head. “You’re not playing the numbers, you’re playing _me_. I’ve survived five people in a row – will you be the sixth one? Or are you better than me, and that stupid Detective Inspector Henderson in Cardiff is gonna get off unpunished for letting the investigation drop? Letting the murderers of my brother walk away?

Sherlock shook his head in an attempt to clear it. “It’s still chance,” he stated. “ _Or_ dumb luck.”

“It ain’t no luck!” the cabbie started to get angry. “It’s genius!”

“Oh, I see,” Sherlock’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “So you’re a proper genius too.”

“Don’t look it, do I?” Jeff Hopley returned bitterly. “Just a loser who drives a cab. But it’s genius. I know how people think. I know how people think _I think_. I can see it all, like a map in my head. Everyone’s so stupid – even _you_ ,” he smiled smugly as Sherlock’s gaze sharpened in affront. “Of course, maybe God just loves me cause I bring about justice.”

“It’s not justice you mete out; it’s vengeance,” Sherlock rubbed his fingers across his chin, finally strong enough to keep his head up.

The cabbie shrugged. “It comes down to the same.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Sherlock said. “If you were out for justice you’d use your mysterious contacts to get the case opened again. Instead you risked your life five times to make sure they got their punishment. So why the hurry?” he paused, finally realising the truth. “You’re dying, aren’t you?”

The colourless eyes of Jeff Hopley flickered, but he managed to hold Sherlock’s gaze. “So are you.”

“You don’t have long, though,” Sherlock pressed. “Am I right?”

“Aneurism,” the cabbie tapped the right side of his head. “Right here. Discovered a couple of months ago.”

Sherlock smiled triumphantly. “Just when you started killing the ones you blamed for the death of your brother… _and_ for the cover up. You couldn’t afford to wait; the wheels of justice turn very slowly sometimes.”

“Any breath I draw can be my last,” the cabbie admitted. “It’s your best hope, Mr Holmes. Bet on the aneurism.”

“I’m not a betting man,” Sherlock replied dryly. “Especially not against embittered losers.”

The cabbie raised a thick eyebrow. “Do you think I’m bitter? You’re wrong. I’ve made my peace with God.”

“Yeah, I can see what your peace’s like,” Sherlock returned sarcastically. “You have just murdered five people!”

Jeff Hopley leaned forward. “Wrong. I’ve _outlived_ five _guilty_ people long enough to bring them to justice. That’s more than you can hope for with an aneurism. And I’ll outlive you, too; cause I have to finish my task.”

Outside in the street, a vehicle came to a halt with screeching brakes. The unmistakable flashing lights of a police car came through the window. Sherlock noticed it, of course; and he could see that so had Jeff Hopley.

“Your time’s running out,” he said softly. “What if I don’t take either?”

“Then I choose for you, and I force it down your throat,” the cabbie replied; his cold eyes left no doubt that he would do so indeed. “Right now there’s nothing you could do to stop me.”

Sherlock considered his choices. He was definitely still too weak to fend the madman off, but perhaps he could pull a trick – because honestly, not even his deduction skills would be good enough to identify the harmless pill without a doubt, and _that_ was an unsettling thought.

Just then the landline phone began to ring. The cabbie ignored it, still hanging after his memories about the previous victims.

“Funnily enough, no-one’s ever gone for that option,” he mused, not the least disturbed by the possibility of getting caught. “And I don’t think you will either.”

Sherlock gave the phone a meaningful look. “Especially as that’s the police.”

“I know,” Jeff Hopley glanced over his shoulder at the flashing lights reflecting on the window plane. “I’m not blind. But that won’t help you. They won’t reach you in time.”

Sherlock, secretly relieved by the arrival of the cavalry, couldn’t entirely hide his thoughtful smile. “Good old Doctor Watson. Clearly, I underestimated him… and so did you,” he turned in his chair, ready to stand up.

The colourless eyes of the cabbie flashed in murderous anger. “You make the slightest move towards that phone, I’ll kill you.”

Sherlock slowly hauled himself to his feet. “Oh, I don’t think so. Not your kind of murder.”

“You wanna risk it?” Jeff Hopley asked in the low, menacing tone of a man who had nothing to lose. “Wouldn’t you rather risk _this_?”

The phone stopped ringing. It beeped and went to voicemail but the caller said nothing. Sherlock looked down at the pills thoughtfully. He couldn’t deny that he was tempted by the life-or-death challenge. Oh, how he was tempted! But the risk seemed almost unreasonable. _Almost_.

“Which one do you think?” the cabbie taunted. “Which one’s the good pill? Come on. I _know_ you’ve got a theory.”

They locked eyes, each trying to read the mind of the other one. Sherlock clenched his fist for a moment, then he reached out for the pill closer to his adversary. The cabbie watched him with detached interest.

“Oh. Interesting,” his voice didn’t give away anything. He slid the pill of Sherlock’s choice across the table and picked up the other one for himself. “So what d’you think? Shall we?”

Still locking eyes with him, Sherlock picked up the pill he’d chosen and then slowly sank back down onto his chair.

“Really, what do you think?” Jeff Hopley insisted. “Can you beat me? Can you stop God’s justice?”

“I can stop a murderer before he’d kill again,” Sherlock replied with a self-confidence he didn’t really feel at the moment. But he couldn’t back off now. Not after he’d accepted the challenge.

“I bet you get bored all the time,” Jeff Hopley smiled coldly. “A man like you, so clever, surrounded by idiots… you’d do _anything_ to escape boredom, even if only temporarily… and that’s your Achilles heel. You ain’t bored _now_ , are you? But you have to wonder what the price will be.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and lifted the pill to his mouth, the cabbie mirroring his every movement. Soon it would be clear which one of them was clever enough to outwit the other one. Sherlock’s breathing became heavy with anticipation as they locked eyes again.

~TBC~


	28. Final Deductions

**FINAL DEDUCTIONS**

Just as Sherlock was about to put the chosen pill into his mouth, a gunshot rang out. The windows behind Jeff Hopley scattered as a bullet hit his upper body, went through it and smashed into the wall behind Sherlock. For a moment, his eyes were still fixed on Sherlock, with an expression of sunned disbelief on his face; then he slumped forward onto the table, dropping his pill.

“Well,” Sherlock dropped his own pill to wipe the cabbie’s blood from his neck and the lower part of his cheek. “It seems God doesn’t love you so much, after all."

Staring down at the dead man for a moment, he scrambled back onto his feet in mild shock, and then hurried over to the window, looking around for the source of the gunshot that had probably saved his life. The empty house opposite the street was the most logical place but he couldn’t see anybody over there; or, indeed, any sign that somebody might have been there only moments ago. The whole building was dark, save one room where the sash window was slightly open, but he couldn’t see any movement there, either.

Police sirens began to sound outside. Down in the street another police car screeched to a halt and out jumped Detective Inspector Lestrade, demanding answers from the flabbergasted police officers already standing around.

“Did anyone see it? Where did it come from? Who is firing? Who is firing?”

Needless to say that the officers didn’t have a clue… as always, Sherlock thought grimly. Lestrade, clearly unhappy with the complete lack of results, ordered them to clear the area, which finally gave them the chance to actually _do_ something.

Minutes later the ambulance arrived with whooping sirens. Two paramedics stormed into the flat, checked briefly on the dead cabbie then, seeing that they couldn’t do anything for him, dragged Sherlock down to the car to check his vitals.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Sherlock protested angrily.

“You’ve blood on his neck and face, sir,” one of the paramedics replied, pushing him down to sit on the back steps of the ambulance car and clipping a monitor to his finger.

“It’s not _mine_ , which you’d realise if you weren’t such an imbecile,” Sherlock returned impatiently. “It's blood _splatters_ , for God’s sake! I’m _fine_!”

“Let us be the judge of _that_ , sir,” the other paramedic said, draping the orange shock blanket that Sherlock had shaken off, around him again and pushing a cup of water in his other hand. “It’s our job, after all. Drink this, it will help.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but sipped on his water while the man cleaned Jeff Hopley’s blood from his face. As much as he’d deny it, he _was_ shaken, and his mouth felt dry like parchment. This had been a very close call, and while the game had been exciting wile it lasted, he could feel the beginning of the backlash now.

Still, he wasn’t about to admit _that_ and looked indignantly at Lestrade who’d just walked up to the ambulance.

“Why have I got this blanket?” he demanded as the paramedic unclipped the monitor and walked away, ignoring his protests. “They keep putting this blanket on me.”

“It’s for the shock,” Lestrade explained with the patience of a twice-over father, used to deal with obnoxious children.

Sherlock put down his cup and rolled his eyes. “I’m not in shock," he declared indignantly.”

Lestrade sniggered, knowing a blatant lie when he was told one. “Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs.”

Sherlock looked away tetchily. “So, the shooter wasn’t one of yours, then.”

Lestrade became very serious again, very quickly. “God, no. We didn’t have time. But a fanatic like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him. Whoever it was, he was gone by the time we got there and we’ve got nothing to go on.”

Sherlock gave him that patented why-don’t-people-just- _think!_ look. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he drawled.

Lestrade gave a long-suffering sigh. “Okay, gimme.” He reached inside his coat and took out a notebook. “I’ll even write it down this time.”

And he did, in fact, take notes while Sherlock rattled down hid deductions about the hypothetical shooter – a marksman with steady hand, acclimatised to violence but with strong moral principles, presumably with a history of military service – with increasing speed. However, in the middle of his usual performance he uncharacteristically trailed off.

“Actually, do you know what?” he switched gears suddenly. “Um, ignore me.”

“I’m sorry?” Lestrade thought for a moment that his ears were playing a trick on him.

“Ignore what I just said,” Sherlock repeated. “It’s the shock talking,” he added, not very convincingly, as he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and he started towards the kerb a short distance away where the small, unassuming figure of Doctor Watson was standing, watching him with calm, observant eyes. “Probably need this blanket, after all.”

Lestrade wasn’t so easily dismissed, though. “Where’re you going?”

“I just need to discuss the rent with my new flatmate,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade all but exploded

“What?” Sherlock snapped. “I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket!” and, in complete contradiction to this statement, he took off the blanket and threw it into the next best police car through the open side window. Lestrade rolled his eyes but knew already that it would be useless to argue with their resident genius in his current mood. Instead, he tucked the notebook back into his pocket and asked quietly. “Were you right?”

Sherlock stopped and turned back to him. “I’m sorry?”

“Did you choose the right pill?” Lestrade clarified.

Sherlock shrugged. “I dunno. In all the confusion, I lost track. I don’t know which I chose.“ He turns to walk away again.

“Maybe he beat you," Lestrade called after him.

“Maybe,” Sherlock replied testily. “But he’s dead.”

“Which brings up the most important question,” Lestrade called after his retreating back. “Who was he and why did he call all those people? Sherlock! Stop, dammit, and give me _something_ to work with!”

Probably reacting to this, Doctor Watson moved from his vantage point to intercept them.

“Er, Detective Inspector, to my certain knowledge, this man hasn’t eaten for several days,” he said, and it would have been hard to tell who was more surprised, Sherlock or the detective. “Now, if you want him alive for your next case, what he’s gonna do right now is have dinner.”

“And who the hell are _you_?” Lestrade demanded.

“I’m his doctor,“ Doctor Watson replied with a bland smile.

“And only a fool argues with his doctor,” Sherlock added, catching up with the same quickly.

Lestrade looked from one to another thoughtfully, finally realising certain connections – and _not_ wanting to look at them too closely. These two had just caught him a serial killer, after all… well, sort of. Reason enough _not_ to ask if those were, in fact, powder burns in the good doctor’s fingers.

“Okay, I’ll pull you in tomorrow,” he said resignedly. “Off you go.”

Doctor Watson fished a business card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to him.

“You’ll want to have Detective Swanson from the Cardiff Police at this meeting, too. She’s been very helpful with finding out the killer’s identity,” he said and jogged after Sherlock, his limp forgotten and his cane, which he’d used at the crime scene, nowhere to see.

Lestrade watched them walk away; then he took out his notebook again and tore out the page with Sherlock’s final deductions, screwing it up and throwing it into the nearby garbage bin. Some things were better left undisturbed.

~TBC~


	29. Family Reunion

**FAMILY REUNION**

John and Sherlock were walking back towards 221B, getting down from their respective adrenaline highs – which, in Sherlock’s case, had actually been quite helpful, as it had helped neutralise the effect of Jeff Hopley’s drug. He made a mental note to find out what kind of drug it actually _had_ been… for purely scientific reasons, of course.

“Sergeant Donovan’s been explaining everything to me,” John said conversationally. “It’s... the two pills? Dreadful business. Dreadful.”

Sherlock gave him a sharp look. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” John asked back in a valiant – and utterly failed – attempt to look innocent.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said sharply. "Just don’t. What did you do with the gun?”

“If I’d own a gun, which I obviously don’t, seeing that it’s illegal and all that, then I’d make sure it’s hidden well enough,” John answered calmly. “And if I’d just fired that hypothetical gun of mine, which I haven’t, of course, I’d remember later to get rid of the power burns in my fingers. I might even ask my flatmate for the right chemicals; as I’m sure he has them stored somewhere.”

Sherlock nodded. “I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case,” he looked around to make sure that nobody’s in earshot. “How did you get here in time anyway?”

John shrugged. “I ran after the cab, called the police, of course, and then I thought, better keep an eye on you. Just in case you might decide to do something monumentally stupid. Turns out I was right, wasn’t I?”

Sherlock frowned. He didn’t like being called stupid. That was _his_ prerogative: to call _other_ people names like that.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You know what I mean so stop obfuscating,” John replied, now _his_ voice turning sharp. “You were gonna take the damned pill, weren’t you?”

“Course not,” Sherlock replied, raising a superior eyebrow. “Playing for time.”

“No, you weren’t,” John said, his voice still sharp with disapproval. “It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? Risking your life to prove you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock’s attempt to look innocent was every bit as failed as John’s had been previously.

“’Cause you’re an idiot,” John answered sharply; for a moment they glared at each other, and then burst into simultaneous bouts of giggles. Although, to be honest, John sounded just a hint hysterical.

Sherlock looked at him closely when they’d calmed down a bit. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right,” John replied, surprised.

“You have just killed a man,” Sherlock sounded more than a little doubtful.

John looked away thoughtfully. Sherlock had never been a soldier; he couldn’t know how profoundly surviving a war zone could change a man. How death could become something regular… something one got used to see every day. For all his brilliance, Sherlock didn’t have the right set of references to understand.

“I’ve seen men die before,” he finally said in a low, emotionless voice. “Good men, friends of mine. Thought I’d never sleep again, he met Sherlock’s eyes, his face a calm mask. “I’ll sleep fine tonight.”

Sherlock seemed a bit uncomfortable with that statement, as if he’d only now realised that his new flatmate had no qualms to take a life, strong moral principles or not. But again, very few civilians were comfortable with the military mindset or could even understand the necessity of taking a life to save one – a decision that had to be made in a split second.

A soldier, though, who had seen the real battlefield, could not afford to hesitate when it came to kill or be killed. And though _Doctor_ Watson was had sworn an oath to save lives, _Captain_ Watson was sometimes forced to end one if there was no other choice.

Such was the dichotomy of John Watson’s life, and he had survived by coming to terms with those two diagonally opposed aspects of his existence. He did not expect others to understand this, though, as Sherlock very obviously did not. Not _yet_ anyway; and John couldn’t be certain that he ever would.

Which was why he never spoke of these things to Harry. _Or_ to Mike Stamford. They were civilians. They wouldn’t understand. To tell the truth, he didn’t even _want_ them to understand. Ignorance could be bliss sometimes, and he didn’t want such experiences darken their hearts.

For some reason, however, he wanted that Sherlock could understand him. He wanted that more than anything else… well, save for getting Mary back, but there wasn’t a rat’s chance for _that_ to happen.

As they had been speaking, a few yards ahead of them a black car had pulled up, and now a tall man in an impeccable three-piece-suit and a single-breasted Chesterfield overcoat with a traditional contrasting velvet collar – which he wore open over his suit – got out, carrying an umbrella. It was very obviously the same creepy bloke who had John kidnapped and brought to that empty warehouse for a little chat.

“Sherlock!” John hissed, elbowing his flatmate in the ribs. “That’s him. That’s the man I was talking to you about.”

Sherlock looks across at the man, his eyed darkening in anger. “Oh, I know exactly who that is.”

He left John alone and strode closer to the other man, with the promise of menace upon his thunderous face.

After a moment of hesitation John jogged after him, wishing he hadn’t had to get rid of his gun. This bloke was Sherlock’s declared archenemy, after all, and retrieving the pistol of its current hiding place wouldn’t be easy.

Speaking of which – since when did people have archenemies? John was fairly sure that _normal_ people didn’t. And Sherlock wasn’t a lead politician or an obscenely rich industrial or anything like that; at least not to John’s knowledge. Which was admittedly limited when it came to his new flatmate. He’d just met the madman a day ago, for God’s sake!

He’d met him only a day ago, yet he’d already killed a man to save him. That was a sobering thought, even if said man had been an insane serial killer with delusions of godhood. But John knew he’d do it again, without a second thought. Because Sherlock Holmes was something extraordinary that the world couldn’t afford to lose.

Of that John Watson was absolutely certain.

He caught up with the two archenemies facing each other, Sherlock’s face dark with anger, that of the other man falsely pleasant. Or at least it appeared to be false.

“So, another killer put away, one way or another,” he was saying just when John came within earshot. “The people of London can feel safe again; how very public spirited. Although that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

For some reason he couldn’t quite explain John had the feeling that Sherlock’s so-called archenemy was right about _that_.

~TBC~


	30. Backstage

**BACKSTAGE**

Ianto and Anthea were watching the confrontation from within the car with growing unease.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Ianto murmured. “This is the first time since Mr Holmes… invited Doctor Watson to that little chat in he warehouse and the Doc… I mean _Sherlock_ is still under the influence of the murderer’s drug. Things can easily get out of control. Do you have his vitals?

The android checked her BlackBerry… or what _looked_ like a BlackBerry anyway.

“His heart rate is elevated… for a human, that is,” she frowned. “His body temperature is still 38.2. Not good.”

“That’s still not life-threatening… for a human,” Ianto said.

The android nodded. “True. But Gallifreyans can go into heat shock if their body temperature rises beyond 38.5. It’s a purely psychosomatic reaction of their subconscious mind and carries over to whatever disguise they may wear.”

“Did it happen to Mr Holmes?” Ianto had the feeling it had, or else Anthea wouldn’t mention it. “What did you do to cool him down?”

“Sprayed him with the fire extinguisher,” the android replied matter-of-factly. “That’s why we always keep one of the gas-filled ones handy. The other sorts would cause severe injuries. Plus, they’d damage his suits, and he’d not react well to _that_.”

For a moment Ianto was absolutely speechless. Then an expression of unholy glee lit up his entire face. “Oh, that’s such a splendid idea! Do you have one on you?”

“Don’t even _think_ of it!” Anthea, whose eyes – or rather internal sensors – never missed a thing, warned sternly. “This is not the situation to play such a prank. We have to dissolve the argument with a minimum of attention from outsiders.”

Ianto’s face fell. “You’re no fun at all!” he complained, but at the same time he made obedient attempts to leave the car. “Well, in that case I should interfere before one of them reaches the boiling point. Spontaneous combustion _would_ draw a lot of unwanted attention, I reckon.”

“Wait!” Anthea’s grip on his upper arm was literally unbreakable. “ _I’ll_ go. Detective Inspector Lestrade has called Detective Swanson; she can arrive any moment. It wouldn’t do us any good if she spotted you. After all, officially you’re still dead.”

Ianto reluctantly agreed, since the android was absolutely right. Detective Swanson knew him too well to mistake him for somebody else, and he couldn’t afford to return to his former life. Not yet. Not as long as the true mastermind behind the destruction of Torchwood still wasn’t caught.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Having made her point – and quite unmistakably at that – the android got out of the car, the automatic injector to lower a disguised Gallifreyan’s potentially dangerous body temperature ready in her pocket. She caught up with the quarrelling “siblings” just in time to hear Sherlock’s final warning about starting a war and what _that_ would do to the traffic. Then the detective simply walked away, leaving a somewhat baffled Doctor Watson behind.

“So, when… when you say you’re concerned about him, you actually _are_ concerned?” the good doctor asked the older Holmes brother.

“Yes, of course,” Mr. Holmes replied; only Anthea know how very true it was.

Keeping an eye of all errant Time Lords visiting the planet, disguised or otherwise, was a source of never-ending concern for the Watcher. Running the British government from backstage was child’s play compared with _that_.

“You mean, it actually _is_ a childish feud?” Doctor Watson pressed, still having a hard time to wrap his plain, honest mind around that concept.

It wasn’t his fault, really, Anthea found. Mr Holmes could play the sinister part very convincingly. Right now, though, he was still watching the retreating back of his “brother” with genuine regret.

“He’s always been so resentful,” he said softly, sorrowfully. “You can imagine the Christmas dinners.”

Not that any Time Lord had _ever_ celebrated Christmas, but this was the closest thing to a Gallifreyan family feast.

Doctor Watson apparently could imagine it, because he shuddered.

“Yeah... no. God, no!” he exclaimed honestly. “I… I think I’d better, um...” He half-turned to follow Sherlock – and that was the moment when he spotted Anthea. His mood visibly brightened. “Oh, hello again!”

Anthea looked up from her BlackBerry and gave him a bright smile; one she would give a complete stranger, pretending that she didn’t remember him. “Hello?”

That caused his mood to flag again. “Yes, we… we met earlier on this evening,” he offered insecurely.

“Oh!” Anthea stared at him as if she’d never seen him before but would be trying to remember him anyway.

The good doctor gave up at that point, although clearly not without regret.

“Okay,” he said in the resigned manner of a man who knows when he doesn’t have a rat’s chance. “Good night then.”

He gave Mr. Holmes a glance showing that it included him, too, and then turned to follow after Sherlock.

“Good night, Doctor Watson,” Mr. Holmes called after him, watching him catch up with Sherlock and the two walk away, laughing. Then he turned back to Anthea urgently. “Do you have it on you?”

The android produced the injector and pressed it to the underside of his wrist at once.

“What about Sherlock?” she asked when the tense expression of Mr. Holmes had eased a little.

The Watcher shrugged. “He’ll have to cope on his own at the moment. Later we may have to entrust Doctor Watson with the problem… giving him a convincing medical reason, of course. See into it.”

“Do you think that would be wise, sir?” the android asked with a very convincing frown. Her designers had done a good job with her facial expressions indeed. “Can we trust the doctor with that kind of information?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Mr. Holmes admitted. “He could be the making of my ‘brother’ – or make him worse than ever. Fact is, though, that _Sherlock_ appears to trust him – at least for the time being – and we should use that fact to our advantage.”

“Perhaps,” Anthea allowed reluctantly.

“Either way,” Mr. Holmes continued while getting in the car in his usual, impeccably elegant manner, “we’d better upgrade their surveillance status. Add it to the already scheduled changes, Mr. Jones.”

Ianto looked back from the driver’s seat. “Sorry, sir, whose status? And to which grade?”

“My brother _and_ his new flatmate,” Mr. Holmes replied. “Grade 3 Active should do the trick.”

Ianto nodded although he knew Anthea had already cleared everything with Mummy. They had a way to communicate no human being could follow. Not even a Time Lord in human disguise.

“Understood, sir. Where shall I take you now? To the office or to the _Diogenes Club_?”

“Neither,” Mr. Holmes answered with a weary sigh. “I’ve had enough for one day. Take me home, Mr. Jones. Mummy can watch things until the next crisis arises.”

~TBC~


	31. It's a Wrap!

**IT'S A WRAP!**

Sherlock and John, in the meantime, were walking up to 221B again, grinning in newfound understanding like two naughty schoolboys.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked causally and John nodded enthusiastically.

“Starving. What about dim sum?”

“Doable,” Sherlock replied. “There’s a good Chinese at the end of the road, stays open ‘til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.”

John gave him a look full of disbelief. “Yeah, sure.”

“And I can always predict the fortune cookies,” Sherlock added.

At that John laughed right into his face. “No you can’t.”

“Yes, I can,” Sherlock insisted. “Well… most of the time….”

John’s only answer was a snort. They reached the police tape strung across the road and Sherlock lifted it so they could walk underneath it.

“So: ran after a cab,” he then said. “Told you that limp was psychosomatic.”

John rolled his eyes. “I _knew_ it was. _That_ wasn’t the problem. Getting rid of it was.”

“You did get shot, though,” Sherlock tried again. “In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound.”

John nodded. “Oh, yeah. In the shoulder.”

“Shoulder!” Sherlock exclaimed triumphantly I” thought so.”

“No you didn’t,” John replied good-naturedly.

Sherlock gave him his deducing look. “The left one,” he decided

John nodded again. “Lucky guess.”

“I never guess,” Sherlock declared with as much dignity as he could master – which wasn’t much, to tell the truth.

John gave him a flat look. “Yes you do.”

For a moment they stared at each other in a clash of wills – then they burst out in simultaneous giggles.

They were still giggling when a cab pulled up right outside the police tape and Mrs Hudson got out of it, apparently just arriving from wherever she had spent the afternoon. She took a look around her, taking in the whole mess, then she turned to Sherlock angrily.

“Sherlock! What have you done to my house?”

Sherlock gave her one of his winning smiles. “Nothing wrong with your house, Mrs Hudson, which is more than can be said for the dead serial killer on the first floor.”

Mrs Hudson wasn’t a woman who’d get easily shocked, not after the things she’d already survived, but _that_ was too much, even for her.

“Dead _what_?!” she repeated in utter disbelief. Sherlock kept smiling at her amiably.

“Good news for London; bad news for your carpet. But you can send the bill to that infuriating brother of mine once you’ve got it dry-cleaned. Good night, Mrs Hudson,” he touched John’s elbow to steer him away. “We might be late tonight. Might need a cuppa.”

“I’m not your housekeeper!” she protested, clearly put off with the whole situation.

“Night, Mrs Hudson!” John called over his shoulder, still giggling like a fool.

They continued down the road, leaving a fuming Mrs Hudson behind. She turned to the police officer managing the tape, her eyes blazing.

“I’m going in now,” she told him in a voice that brooked no argument, and the officer had enough sense of self-preservation to simply wave her through.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Detective Inspector Lestrade was still deep in thought when another police car pulled up, bringing the detective lady from Cardiff who had been waiting in his office with remarkable patience.

“So, it’s over I understand,” she said, visibly relieved. “I’m glad to hear it. It’s a shame for poor Maggie, though. She was a nice woman; she didn’t deserve to be murdered by a madman just cos she dared to get over her personal tragedy and managed to begin her life anew.”

Lestrade nodded. She’d informed him about the last victim’s background and about the motivation she and Sherlock had figured out, but there were still certain details that he could not understand.

“And you still haven’t told me why Sherlock chose to contact _you_ of all people,” he said. “Why not Detective Inspector Henderson? Wouldn’t he be the more logical choice?”

Swanson shrugged. “All he said was that somebody told him I might help with the identification of the last victim. He never said _who_ it was; he probably didn’t know, either.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about _that_ ,” Lestrade said slowly. “There are few things Sherlock doesn’t know; and what _he_ doesn’t, that pompous, annoying brother of his certainly does.”

“He’s got a brother?” Swanson asked in surprise. “Somebody like him?”

“Worse,” Lestrade replied darkly. “Somebody rich, meddling, insufferable – and working for the government in some nebulous capacity, so punching him in the face would be disadvantageous for one’s career.”

“A connection like that could be useful, though,” Swanson pointed out.

“It is,” Lestrade admitted, “but it doesn’t mean I have to _like_ him. _Or_ his perpetual meddling. Well, Detective Swanson, now that the cause is solved what do you thing about dinner? There is that Italian place Sherlock favours. The food is excellent and the owner thinks I’m Sherlock’s friend, so he likes me.”

“All right,” Swanson laughed, “but only if we drop the formalities. We’re both off-duty now, and my name’s Kathy.”

“And mine’s Greg,” Lestrade opened the car door on the passenger side for her. “After you.”

~The End – for now~

A rather dark Interlude is coming up next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last part of this installment. A short Interlude will follow, then the main storyline will be picked up in "Serpent's Lair" again.


End file.
